To Die with Open Eyes
by becka
Summary: Slash. Not all prophecy is foretold with good intentions. Please consider the warnings before you decide to read this one.
1. Pretty Kitty

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka  
Pairing: Xander/Anya. Xander/Spike. Spike/Dru.

Warnings: Abuse, Angst, AU?, Blood, Brutality, Character-death, Child-abuse, DARK, Disturbed, Language, NCS (graphic), Self-injury, Spike and Drusilla-bastardizing, Xander-torture, Yoai/Slash.

Disclaimer: Neither Angel nor Buffy, the Vampire Slayer belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

Note: This story was written years ago, was posted on my old website and a few mailing lists, but never made it this site. Seeing as how I no longer have a website, and most of the mailing lists are dead and gone, I figured I might as well tack it up here for posterity's sake.

o

Life on the Hellmouth __sucks__ like a two-cent toothless hooker, or so Xander thinks as he walks on the street. Right in the middle, path marked by the dotted yellow line. It's a game he likes to play sometimes when no one he knows is watching; he calls it, "Red Light, Green Light."

He's tired, but that's nothing new. And he's out another job, but he laughs to himself, 'cause that's not new, either. Same old story, same old life, and sometimes he gets sick of it, but most days he just ignores it.

"You're late," his boss said, but that __so__ wasn't new. It's the story of his life, because he's the fucking bull's eye when his father's drunk and swinging, and as much as he loves the gang, late-night patrols are a pain in the ass. He told his boss that he was suffering from a chronic illness, totally trying to play the pity-factor. It never works, but he keeps trying because pity-money's just as green.

He told Anya that morning, and after a sex-binge of orgasms, she tossed him out and told him to get another job. She likes her creature comforts, and he loves her enough to keep her in them.

So he drops his applications off, sets up interviews, and wishes he had another life.

The self-pity sits in his stomach and kicks the pizza he'd eaten that morning.

He notices the sun's going down when a car whizzes by him, missing him by six inches. The fucker in the front seat honks at him, but he ignores it and his footsteps fall a little faster. Without a stake, he's walking lunchmeat for the creatures of the night, and he knows it.

Someone on the sidewalk whistles at him, and he glances over. Dark-hair, dark-eyes, and a smile that's all teeth greet him, and maybe Buff's the Slayer, but after four years of having her back, he's picked up something he fondly calls his "Xandy-sense."

The man's a demon, for sure. Xander likes to think he knows this because of said "Xandy-sense," but the ridges and bumps on the forehead were maybe a clue. An inner voice snidely dubs the man "Poofy Jr." and an image of King Xander on a white horse slaying said Poofy flashes through his mind.

"I got something for you, kid," Poofy says, still smiling.

Xander snorts, loudly, and lies, "I like my life. Not interested in whatever it is you're selling."

"Oh, that's cute," the man replies. "I can see why the Boss likes you."

"If you're trying to comfort me, you're doing a piss-poor job." So maybe snarky insults aren't really going to help him out of this situation, but then, getting his ass kicked is something Xander's quite good at. It's sick, but he takes pride in the things he does well.

Poofy rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' cynic, you are. You don't have to trust me. I'm going to leave this," he holds up an envelope and waves it a little, "right on the sidewalk. I'll leave, you pick it up, and my job's done."

"So picking up a piece of paper makes vampires leave me alone? I'll have to tell Buffy that. See, she's under the impression that staking them works."

The vampire actually laughs at that. "Priceless, man. After you pick it up, you're supposed to open it, but that's your job, not mine. See you 'round, kid." He leaves the envelope on the sidewalk and disappears into the night.

Xander stands there for a minute, hands hanging uncertainly at his sides. Curiosity gets the better of him, so he walks over and grabs the envelope, stuffing it into his pocket.

Still slightly weirded out, he goes back to walking on the middle of the road. "Red Light, Green Light," isn't nearly as fun as "Car Tag," but it's late and people know better than to be driving around in Sunnydale. Then again, people know better than to go for walks after dark, too.

Xander tries not to classify himself with people. He thinks of himself as the defective model.

Still, he makes it all the way home.

o

An hour later finds him still staring at an unopened envelope. Anya's snuggled against him, snoring softly, and the TV is static in the background.

The envelope is light, and the paper is pale cream. His name's on the front, inked in blood red, and the handwriting is spidery-curls. So he feels a little panicky, partly because his mind actually __knows__ the envelope's cream-colored thanks to a paint-mixing job at Home Depot, but mainly because a creature of the night knows him by name.

Very slowly, almost afraid something's going to pop out, he opens the envelope. There's a folded sheet of paper, same color, and a key inside.

He pulls the paper out, unfolds it, and stares at the red words written there.

/ Alexander -

Tomorrow night, 10pm.

Room 213, Sunnydale Plaza.

Come alone or a witch gets burned.

With love and dark kisses

- S & D /

The paper shakes in his hand. Probably because his hands are shaking so badly he can feel the rattle down to his toes. He rereads the words again, just to be sure he got them right.

He did. The words don't change at all. They just kind of sit there and mock him.

Biting his lip, he refolds the note and shoves it back into the envelope; he sticks the envelope under his pillow and pulls Anya closer to him. He takes comfort in her warmth, even as his eyes narrow. He only knows three vampires on a personal basis; Angel, Spike, and Drusilla.

He's not as dumb as most people think. In this case, two and two equals major bad karma.

Blonde hair and blue eyes engulf him as his memories surface, and two wicked smiles mock him. They were capable of killing his Wills; that he didn't doubt. Walking right into their arms would be the __worst__ thing he could do, but maybe he is as dumb as most people say because as he drifts off to dreamless sleep, he somehow knows that's exactly what he's going to do.

o

The next morning comes way too soon in Xander's personal opinion. Anya watches him from the bed, smiling and beautiful, and somehow he wonders if it's going to be the last time he sees her.

"My lady," he says, digging up a smile for her, "May I take you out for lunch?"

His girlfriend blushes. It's not completely abnormal for him because sometimes he surprises her with questions like that, but the blush is nice. It reminds him why he loves her. It reminds him she's still human.

"Your treat," she says, scooting off the bed to get dressed.

"My treat," he echoes, watching her with hungry eyes. She notices this, blushes again, and her laughter is music. "If you keep looking at me like __that__, you and I are going to have to interlock some parts."

"Can't have that." His reply is accompanied by a tiny smile as he turns away and lets her dress in privacy.

They spend the day together, and each smile is another reminder of how much he loves her. He takes her out for lunch at the best place in town, a pricey little Italian joint, and says all the things that keep her blushing. He takes her to a chick flick, not at all his style, but he makes an exception because he really wants a happy ending, and he rubs little circles on her back as they sit in the dark theater. He takes her out for dessert at a cute little cafe, and buys her coffee and strawberry shortcake and tells her how much he loves her.

Ten o' clock is approaching fast, so he whisks her back to the apartment, and while he knows she wonders where all of this - the dinner, the movie, the date - came from, he just kisses her and lays her back on the bed and loves her with the desperation of a man who knows he's going to die.

When they're through, he spares a glance at the clock and sees he has twenty minutes left. He kisses her again, then slips out of bed and arms himself to the teeth with stakes, holy water, and a gun with wooden bullets. He pulls the envelope out from beneath his pillow and turns to face his girlfriend. Anya's watching him, the question on her face hanging in the air.

"Job interview," he lies, with his best Xander-shaped smile, and she smiles back.

"It's good you're taking precautions," she says.

"I love you, Anya," he answers, leaning down to kiss her, and he tastes strawberries on her lips.

"You, too." Then she laughs, "When you come back, give me more orgasms like that last one."

He opens his mouth to tell her that he promises, but the words stick in his throat. Xander can't lie to her like that; not the way people have been lying to him his whole life. So he just jerks his head in the parody of a nod, and turns and walks out the door.

o

He finds himself in Sunnydale Plaza, the most outrageously priced hotel the Hellmouth has to offer. Standing outside of room two-thirteen, he clutches the key in his hand and calls himself every kind of stupid known to man.

Xander checks his watch. Digital, bright green letters blink cheerfully up at him - 9:59. He's got one minute to decide - chicken out and tell Buffy and Giles about the note, and hope to a God he stopped believing in the first time his father beat him that Willow isn't going to be killed, or unlock the door and accept the end of his own life.

Whose life did he value more: Willow's or his own?

That thought seals it for him, and he slips the key into the lock, his fingers tightening on the doorknob like a noose around a dead man's neck. His watch blinks - 10:00 - and he opens the door and steps inside.

The lights are dim. He glances around but doesn't see anyone, and his heart is beating so hard he thinks it's going to jump out of his chest and start flopping around on the floor.

"Close the door, pet."

He jumps, swallowing hard. He knows the voice. British bad boy with a hint of sullen, a little snarky, and a lot commanding. Close the door? It's as if the vampire is asking him to seal his own fate, so he thinks about Willow.

The door shuts with an audible click.

_Click._

The sound echoes in his head like a gunshot.

"Ooh! Spikey, luv, he's so very pretty! I'd forgotten how very pretty 'e is!"

Drusilla. Dark-haired vampire goddess. Crazy as a loon.

"Very pretty, baby," Spike repeats softly, and Xander's breath is coming in short, tight gasps. He thinks he's hyperventilating, and he still can't see either vampire. He wonders if this game of "Cat and Mouse" is anything like his version of "Car Tag."

"Spikey, luv, the lil' kitten's scared! The stars say he's the one, an' they whisper such naughty things to me. Take 'im, break 'im, an' make 'im, luv!"

There's another click behind Xander, and it reminds him of someone closing a book they've just finished. He turns and reaches blindly for the doorknob, and he pulls at it frantically, but his worst fears are realized when he feels it's locked.

"Ah, ah, luv," Spike purrs into his ear, and he feels his arms pinned to his sides. He tries to squirm, but he's no match for vampiric strength. He knows it, Spike knows it, and Drusilla probably knows it too, but he hears her singing to her stars and realizes she doesn't care.

Spike's voice is soft and honey-sweet, and the darkness there makes Xander's blood run cold.

"Now, now, pet. Y'can't be leavin' us so soon. My princess wants you ta stay for tea."

Drusilla giggles and Xander's eyes are slowly adjusting to the dark. He sees her slight form as a blur of movement as she sways from side to side, humming off-key.

The blonde's teeth graze his ear and Xander jerks forward, letting out a single, tiny cry, and he hears Spike whisper, "Very lovely, pet. Promise you'll do that again."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Xander says without thinking, and he mentally kicks himself in the ass.

Spike laughs, delighted. "A treasure, you are, pet. 'ave some tea."

Xander finds himself roughly shoved into a chair, and he knows that if he weren't so scared, he'd be pissing his pants. Drusilla floats over and pours him a cup of tea, and he picks it up with shaking hands. He feels the hot liquid burn as he spills some on his crotch, and his inner voice snickers, _/Only queens piss tea./_ So he laughs quietly, his voice borderline hysterical.

Both vampires ignore him for a moment as they take their seats across from him, and Drusilla pours two more cups of tea. Xander notices idly that the vampire's pinkie sticks out as she sips daintily.

Still laughing, Xander sips his own tea, and his brain shuts down and lets his body pilot on automatic.

"Oh, dear," he hears Drusilla say, and she sounds like she's on the other side of the Grand Canyon; her voices echoes across to him, "The kitten's gone away, Spikey. He's lost in 'is own head, and I can see 'im bathed in blood."

"Really, my sweet?" Spike asks, sipping his tea quietly. Xander thinks he's humoring her, and he finds he doesn't care. He just wants to be somewhere else.

Swallowing again, he whispers, "What are you gonna do to me?" And his voice is just like Drusilla's, an echo across space and time.

"Why, pet, I didn't think you'd ever ask," Spike responds happily, sounding like a kid who's been given a present the day before Christmas. "See, Dru 'ere had a vision - you know 'ow my princess gets - an' she says you're important ta us, so I says, 'Naw, luv, not the __whelp__,' but she says, 'Yeah, luv, my lil' dark kitty-cat,' and she stomped 'er feet until I promised to get'cha, and after I give 'er my word, I asks, 'What am I supposed ta do with your kitty-kat, luv?' and she says, 'Lick off all the icin', Spikey.' Now, I spent __years__ interpretin' for my wicked plum 'ere, so I know what she __really__ means, an' that's that, an' here you are."

Xander realizes he's never heard Spike say so much all at once before, and it occurs to him, finally, that Spike's just as crazy as Drusilla. However, the years he's spent perfecting his patented Xander-babble have paid off, so he brings out his sorely neglected courage and asks, "What does she mean?"

The blonde laughs, downs his tea and drops the cup on the floor. As it shatters, Xander realizes that Spike's behind him, hands clamped on Xander's shoulders. The vampire leans over and licks his ear, and his whisper is pure wickedness. "Why, I 'ave ta take your innocence, pet."

Two hands are around his throat, choking off his voice before he can even __scream__, and he's being dragged across the room. He hears Drusilla laughing and clapping her hands like a little child, and then they're in the bathroom.

Spike flicks the light on, and Xander sees there's a man in the bathtub, bound and gagged and crying his eyes out.

Suddenly the vampire hauls him to his feet and turns him to face the man.

More whispers in his ear, and slowly the words filter through Xander's shell-shocked brain. "This 'ere," the vampire says, "is Tommy Greenwich. He's a child-rapist an' a sick lil' fuck, for a human, and jus' t'day, he took a lil' girl home with him and raped 'er til she bled. Then he cut 'er up into tiny lil' pieces and he __cooked__ 'er an' fed 'er to his puppy-dog."

Xander's face twists in disgust, and there's a wet spot on the man's crotch that grows by the minute.

"I want you ta kill 'im, pet."

"What?" Xander asks stupidly, even though he __knows__ he heard the vampire correctly.

"I want to you put a stake in 'is heart an' I want ta see your 'ands covered in blood," Spike repeats gleefully. "If y'don't kill 'im, I'm gonna take this town apart, startin' with your bint while y'watch."

"I can't -"

Xander's cut off as Spike continues, "Y'can, pet, and y'will. 'Cause otherwise I'm gonna tell you exactly how I'm gonna kill your mates. An' then I'm gonna show you."

"I-" Xander stops short, stares at the pathetic man in the bathtub, and wishes he could cry, but tears elude him. He suddenly realizes that he's going to do exactly what Spike wants because the man in front of him is a sick fuck, just like the vampire says, and because he loves Anya and Wills and Buffy and Dawnie and Giles more than he loves himself.

"Look, pet," the vampire continues, unaware of Xander's acceptance, "I found you the nastiest bloke I could. I'm tryin' ta make this __easy__ on-"

"Let me go," Xander says, and the vampire releases him in surprise. Xander's not in control anymore; there's a soldier in his head and the orders have been okayed. He pulls a stake from his pocket and kneels next to the tub.

Tommy stares at him through wild, bloodshot eyes; Xander sees his father, and the soldier sees his target, and the hyena sees dinner. "I'm not sorry," says a dead voice, and Xander brings the stake down hard and fast, hitting the man's heart dead-on.

Blood goes everywhere, and Tommy cries out through the gag, but Xander's already picking up a white hotel towel and wiping his face clean.

Spike's standing in the doorway, watching Xander with an expression that he can't quite place, and he hears Drusilla laughing from the other room. She's singing, "I told you so, Spikey, I told you so!"

The blonde jerks his chin at the dying man in the tub and says softly, "Y'leave 'im like that, pet, an' he's gonna be dyin' for at least another hour."

Xander stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, and he doesn't recognize his own face.

He walks out of the bathroom, brushing past the vampire, and he says in a deathly quiet voice, "Let him."

Suddenly Xander finds himself face down on the ground, eating carpet. His inner voice snickers, /_Rug muncher_,/ but he ignores it. Spike's on top of him, ripping his clothes off and snarling, and Drusilla's dainty slippered feet dance in front of his eyes.

Xander's cold. Inside and outside, and he can't find the will to fight. His pants come off and he feels two fingers wiggling inside of him, slipping back and forth, cold and impersonal. He doesn't care. He's surprised the vampire is even taking the time to lube him with anything.

Strong arms flip him over, and Xander notes in a detached corner of his mind that there's blood on Spike's fingers. Tommy's blood. The blood of the first man he's ever killed.

Spike's fucking him with blood.

He wants to laugh, but he knows that if he does, he's not going to stop, so he stares at the ceiling with dead eyes and sees Drusilla smile down at him.

"Pretty kitty," she says. "So very pretty, an' all red like the sunset. Can you see me, kitty?"

Spike's dick slams into him and Xander grunts. His legs are in the air and the blonde starts pounding into him, pistoning back and forth. Xander can't find the will to care, so he stares into Drusilla's yellow eyes and whispers, "I see you, Princess."

Xander feels Spike pause, so he looks at the blonde, and he feels dead inside.

For a moment Xander sees a flash of horror on the vampire's face, but only for a moment because he knows Spike is a sick fuck, just like the man he killed, and that he's __enjoying__ all of this.

"Why are you crying, Xan?"

_/Xan, Xander, Alexander,/_ his mind singsongs, and everything hits him like a punch from Buffy, and he starts to laugh. His head falls back on the carpet and the tears stream down his face. He's hysterical and he knows it, but nothing matters, right?

"I'm not crying, Spikey. My eyes are."

Drusilla leans down and pats him on the cheek and goes back to her tea and Spike starts to fuck him again, harder and faster than before. And Xander's floating somewhere, he knows he is, but that's okay, because he's laughing and crying so he must still be alive.

Not dead, like the man in the bathroom. Not dead, like the vampire fucking him. Not dead, like the little girl sipping demurely from her teacup and chatting with her dolls.

But somehow he knows that he's not really alive, either.

"What can you do, pet?" the vampire asks suddenly, never breaking his stride.

Xander doesn't understand the question, but he stops laughing. Spike's words are as wicked as the rest of him.

"Slayer's the strength. Got a mean right-hook, she does."

Spike pushes into him hard, and Xander stares at the ceiling. Spike's fucking him and talking about Buffy.

"Ain't the eyes o' this lot. That'd be the Watcher, yeah? No fancy Oxford degree."

The ceiling's painted Cloudless Day.

"Not got the mojo. Little red witch's got that cornered. Even the bint's __bint__ 'as more magic in 'er blood."

Cloudless Day's a stupid name for a color, Xander thinks.

"The lil' bit's the heart, ain't she? They fight ta keep 'er safe, an' I can't say as you ever could open the 'ellmouth with your blood."

You need one-third blue and one-sixth red to make it.

"Even the in-an'-outs 'ave more'n you. That Oz-bloke's a werewolf. Faith's another Slayer. The Poof's my bloody sire. Wes is another Watcher. Your bint's an ex-demon. Even the bloody cheerleader, the Chase girl, is a seer."

Spike's fucking him with blood.

"But you, pet?" The blonde slams deep, growling, and Xander feels something cool slicking his insides. Spike pushes off, leaving him on the floor. As the vampire stares down at him, he has a pained expression on his face. He offers Xander a hand up and Xander takes it without a word.

Spike stares at him, brushing a hand across Xander's cheek. His voice is a whisper and he says, "As of now, you're the fuckin' comic relief."

Xander realizes he's not dead, but he wants to be. He's not alive, and he's not dead, but he wants to be dead so bad it burns him on the inside. Spike seems to sense this, and he continues, "You live for me t'day, pet, an' I promise I'll die for you."

"I hate you, Spike," Xander says quietly, but the blonde just smiles.

"Can you see me, pet?" he asks, and he hears Drusilla giggle.

"He can see you, luv. The stars say 'e can see __everythin'__, now."

"Hush, plum," Spike says to Drusilla without taking his eyes off Xander.

He continues softly, "Y'live for me t'day, and I'm gonna come back for you. Who are you, pet? Answer me that."

Xander opens his mouth, but the blonde lays a finger across his lips.

"But not t'day."

"Run along, kitty-cat," Drusilla sings softly, "Run an' play like a good lil' kitty."

/_Pussy-cat_,/ his mind whispers softly. /_The kitty-cat's a pussy and he takes it up the ass_./

Xander stares at the pair of them, and there's blood on his face and blood running down his legs and he sees red. He leans down and picks up his pants and slips his shirt back on, and uses his jacket to cover the tear.

"Bye, now, pretty-kitty," Drusilla giggles.

"Pussy-cat," he says as he limps to the door.

Spike clears his throat and asks, "What, pet?"

Xander turns and smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "The kitty-cat's a pussy and he takes it up the ass."

Then he turns, unlocks the door, and closes it softly behind him, but he thinks he hears them laughing.

o


	2. Prophecy

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 2: Prophecy

o

Xander walks in the middle of the street. He's playing "Red Light, Green Light," and he's praying that a monster takes him up on his oh-so-gracious invitation, but no monsters come a'calling. He sees a couple of fledges out of the corner of his eye, and one of them's grinning and pointing Xander out to his buddies, but as he gets closer, the vampires start to sniff the air.

He watches as the grins slide into round O's of abject horror, and he thinks he should probably laugh. He resists the urge to call after them and tell them they're running from the fucking __Donut__ Boy, but he doesn't think it'll do any good.

So he makes it to his house without a hitch, and Anya's already asleep, snoring softly, and as he looks at her, he wonders if he can ever touch her again.

He walks into the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror. There's dried blood on his face, his shirt is barely hanging on his chest, and he doesn't recognize his eyes. There are tear streaks there, too, but he finds that kind of funny, because he only remembers laughing.

Without a word, he grabs a towel and hangs it across the mirror.

Xander peels his clothing off, a soft hiss of pain escaping clenched teeth. Then the pain just disappears and he thinks he's having what Giles would call "an out-of-body experience." He wonders if that makes him, like, Zen master or something.

Body's moving slowly, he's limping and each step is sort of choppy, but he makes it to the shower. He turns one tap up, all the way, and he __thinks__ the water's super hot, but he can't feel it. Naked and bloody, he steps beneath the cleansing stream and soaks up all the steam, but it's not fucking __enough__.

He grabs a bar of soap and starts to scrub furiously. He keeps at it and the soap bar's tinted red and the water on the shower floor is turning pink. It's still not enough.

_/Scrub, scrub, scrub, one Xan in the tub./_

The skin he can see is rubbed raw from his efforts, but it's not enough and he __knows__ it's not enough. The bar of soap drops from nerveless fingers.

He starts to scratch himself, hesitantly at first, but soon his nails are biting into his skin, and the skin's peeling off. The water at his feet turns a darker shade of red, but it doesn't matter, because he's busy scratching, so he thinks that the water can do whatever the fuck it wants.

_/Scratch, scratch, scratch, Xan needs a patch./_

He's bleeding all over the place, and laughter bubbles to his lips. That's just fine, he thinks, and he keeps scratching.

Somehow he ends up sitting on the shower floor, and he's still bleeding, but he doesn't care. He's rocking back and forth, legs curled into his chest, arms around his legs. Idly he scratches his arm again, sitting underneath the shower's spray, and he doesn't think it's enough, but he figures it'll have to do.

o

He crawls out of the tub sometime the next morning; the water pouring down on him is freezing cold, but he doesn't let it bother him. His skin is pruned, wrinkly, and white, save the raw ribbon-thin scratches.

Anya's just beginning to wake up and he stares down at her as her nose twitches and she yawns like a kitten.

His mind snidely comments, _/She's a kitten, you're a pussy. Who got the better end of the deal?/_

Beautiful, gorgeous, sexy Anya; she's in his bed, and she was in his heart, but his heart feels like a thing of the past. Two baby blue eyes open slowly and she mumbles, "How'd the interview go?"

And just like that, he has to laugh. "Just great, An," he says, "I think the Boss likes me." It's not really a lie, 'cause it's so close to the truth that it hurts.

o

There's a Scooby meeting, so Xander and his girl head on over to Giles' house. When they walk in, Giles' nose is buried in a book, and Wills and Tara are talking "prophecy mojo," and Buffy's just sitting there, looking kind of useless while Dawn does Xander proud and executes the mile-a-minute babble-thing, which keeps the Slayer entertained.

So, Xander thinks, there's a prophecy, but then, it's Sunnyhell, where prophecy abounds. He jumps right in because it's easier; he's pitching the helping hand and forgetting about Drusilla's little tea party, and even though he knows he can't forget, he thinks a certain river in Egypt is looking pretty good right now.

Giles looks like he's having a fit, so Xander peeks over his shoulder to look at the book in the Watcher's hands; demon language is such a pain when it looks like page after page of Rorschach tests. Xander doesn't think the Watcher's crazy yet, but trying to read all those fucking inkblots might be the final straw.

He glances over at Anya who's slipping into the kitchen for something to drink, and he smiles, but he doesn't think it reaches his eyes. Then he points to one of the blots and says, "It's a pink bunny, G-man. Don't you see it?"

The room temperature plummets as Giles glares, but what did he expect? Xander is the comic relief, and even the nasties that go bump in the night know it.

Anya, of course, picks that second to walk back in, Diet Coke in hand, and Xander thinks her sense of bad timing is like, __totally__ Zen master, and Willow spends the next five minutes calming the hyperventilating ex-demon, assuring her it's __not__ a prophecy about bunnies. Rubbing circles on the blonde girl's back, she adds her own glare to Giles' and hey, look! Subzero in the middle of the summer.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy makes a crack to get herself back into the conversation. "Jeez, Anya, it's not like the worst the Hellmouth has to offer is Rabbits of Doom, you know."

And Xander just can't help himself, because he's teetering on the brink of insanity already, and everything's funny when you're on the edge. He's on the floor, holding his sides and laughing like a demented hyena, but when the thought crosses his mind, he refuses to go there. Takes control of himself and grabs a seat on the couch, and then tries to be manly, insuring his honey-bunny that in the event of Rabbits of Doom taking over the Hellmouth, he'll protect her.

Anya's immediately contrite, Diet Coke and bunnies forgotten, and all over her boyfriend with wandering hands. Buffy covers Dawn's eyes and gives the standard get-a-freakin'-room speech, which Xander doesn't quite hear, because his babe-girlfriend has a tongue in his ear and a hand on his crotch.

Giles is back to the inkblots at this point, but it's a losing battle. He lobs the book at the back of Xander's head, totally Matrix-style, and it's slow motion until it hits its target with a solid crack.

Xander wasn't paying attention, so he immediately grabs the book and chucks it at Buffy, who's totally innocent, but innocent until proven guilty is the last thing on the Xand-man's mind. Headache's already starting, and no amount of Tylenol is going to make it better. The Slayer catches it, of course - superpower reflex and all that jazz, and Giles contritely asks for said book back, which leaves Xander to wonder.

Book-chucking kicks up dust, and Willow does the twitchy-nose thing from Bewitched, but she spoils the moment and sneezes. Tara hands her a tissue to make it all better, and Giles finally gets the hang of blot-reading. He holds up the almighty hand and everything just __stops__. Except, of course, for Anya's wandering hands, but then that would take a miracle, and Gods are a bit short on the Hellmouth because Buffy keeps offing them.

So, in full-on Watcher mode, Giles commands attention, and Xander __tries__ to pay attention, but his girl's got naughty, naughty hands. So he listens with a half-ear, and he hears the words but they don't quite register.

Giles voice is low and lyrical, picking up the simple pentameter of the newest prophecy, and Willow's on the computer, typing the words as he translates:

"Willingly given, innocence faded.

Reborn to darkness, innocence jaded.

Alive but not living, in memory dead.

In tarnished armor, the innocence bled."

With a lapful of Anya, Xander thinks it sounds like your standard Hellmouth crap, and bit by bit, he's losing himself. Anya's __so__ much more interesting than the run-of-the-mill that is his sidekick-slaying-life, and she's kissing him and she's rubbing against him, and he can deal because Spike didn't kiss him; Spike just bent him over and fucked him.

Now Anya's got a hand down his pants, and Buffy's still covering Dawn's eyes despite vehement protest, and Giles is doing his best to look anywhere __but__ the happy couple while he translates, because he loves the boy, but "Little Xander" isn't something that was meant for the public eye. So Giles keeps going, and Willow's delicate keystrokes are a nice cover for Xander's heavy breathing.

"Sight to the blind, strength for the child,

Magic breathes life to innocence spoiled.

Heart to the heartless, touch for the numb,

Dawn to the dusk where innocence come.

The spoils of war is innocence soul,

Burned in light is innocence cold.

Shadow in souls, souls sound the cry,

The balance restored, may innocence die."

Xander hears this, but he doesn't understand, because while it flickers in passing though his brain, it's really all just words. He doesn't let it bother him that his mind's not working well because he figures all the blood's got better places to be.

He sort of hears what it all boils down to: Dawn was the key and therefore created, so she doesn't have a little something called original sin, and that kind of innocence is just what this prophecy's talking about, or so Giles says as he starts tossing out wards of protection, heaping them on like a second serving of mashed potatoes.

Soft panting fills his ears and he knows Anya's all hot and bothered, and he figures the sooner the Hellmouthy crap is done, he can take her back to his basement and love her as much as he can. Kiss her and touch her and maybe that'll wash away the feel of Spike's hands on him in a way the shower water couldn't.

And then something kind of funny happens. His arms start to tingle a little bit, mostly his fingers, but it spreads up and out, and his chest kind of contracts, and his legs and his feet are all pins and needles. He doesn't know how to describe it, but if he has to put it to words, it's like he feels himself __fading__. Swallowing, almost afraid, he opens his eyes and looks at his hands because his disappearing act __definitely__ takes precedence over getting laid, and he almost vomits because he can see __through__ his arms. It's creepy and nasty all at once, because __ew__, veins and bones and muscle, but the __really__ funny part about it all is that no one __notices__.

He's disappearing and Giles is still heaping ward after ward on Dawnie, and Anya, who was fucking jerking him __off__ has this super-spacey look on her face, and he __tries__ to call out, but he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. All he can do is stare at the room around him like a loon and pray to God that someone fucking __helps__ him. Willow's still typing and Tara's looking over her shoulder, and Buffy's still covering Dawn's eyes, but she's getting the same sort of spacey-vibe his babe's giving off, and all of a sudden, he's just not __there__.

Anya blinks and wonders why she's on the couch, and goes to grab a Diet Coke, and Dawn swats Buffy's hand away. Buffy blinks, too, not quite remembering what the offending appendage was doing there in the first place, and Giles just smiles and says that Dawn's way too protected for any prophesy to just whisk her out of existence.

o

"Ooh! It's startin', Spikey. I gotta 'ave popcorn, 'cause my lil' dark kitty's gone away." Drusilla claps her hands and does a little twirl, skirt flaring, soft silks and wispy gauze.

Spike looks up at his Dark Princess and smiles, but both of them know his mind's not there. It's back with yesterday, looking down into empty, chocolate eyes, with a warm body writhing beneath his own. He's back wondering how the boy killed a man without blinking and why he didn't scream.

The blonde extends a hand, which Drusilla accepts, and he pulls her into his lap. She's giggling, "Naughty, naughty," and he asks, "Where's the lil' kitten gone to, luv?"

"He's with our angels, now!" she laughs, then whispers in a soft, conspiratorial voice, "He's so like the sunset, lovey, inside an' out. 'is naughty lil' bits are all red rum!" Tapping him on the nose, her voice strengthens, "But don't you worry your pretty lil' head, my luv, 'cause he'll be back before you know."

Spike stares at the wall, his voice deceptively soft as he asks, "Does he hate me, plum?"

Tossing her head from side to side, she hunkers down, pressing herself against Spike's body. "Bad, wicked man, my luv, he hates you so very much!" she says, husky and pouting, "But today's today and tomorrow he'll love you even more."

Then she's on him, kissing and licking and nipping his throat, and Spike stares up at the ceiling and lets her. His mind plays the scene over again like some sort of broken record, and he fingers her dark, curly hair and wishes it was shorter.

"The kitty likes ta play, 'Cat an' Mouse,' and he's jus' a delight ain't he, Spikey?" she whispers against his skin.

"Aye, sweet, he is," Spike answers, and he continues to stare at the ceiling.

o

Xander opens his eyes, or rather, Xander's eyes open as a strange, black, burly man pulls his eyelids back and shines a light directly into a pupil. Auto-reflex kicks in and he blinks and swears.

"Hey, my man, we got a live one!" the black man says happily as Xander sits up.

"I really do wish you'd stop that, Guard. I'm not your 'man,'" a snooty voice says.

Rubbing his eyes, Xander takes a moment to study his surroundings. Grey room, tiny, with a podium at one end and a chair at the other. No doors or windows, which his mind translates as no way out. He glances at the man with the flashlight - lots of muscles and tattoos, black wifebeater and baggy jeans. Shaved head, tons of piercings, and a shit-eating grin that stretches from ear to ear.

"Where am I?" Xander asks, shaking his head as he remembers the little disappearing act his body pulled at Giles' house.

"Baggage pickup and claims," the snooty voice says again, and this time Xander sees the man standing on the other side of him. Old man, white hair, pale skin, in a stuffy suit and a tie. He kind of reminds Xander of a big-shot lawyer on TV.

The black man shrugs, jerking a thumb towards his companion, "He's the Clerk, I'm the Guard. Nice to meet'cha, my man."

"He's not your man, either." Clerk said with a sniff. "In fact, I highly doubt anyone would want that particular position."

"You love me, man. You know you do," Guard says with a kissy face, which looks totally out of place on the scary, dark face.

"Why am I here?" Xander asks. He feels sort of dizzy, but he stands up anyway.

The Clerk answers promptly, "Prophecy, of course!"

"Shitty luck, you mean," Guard snorts.

Xander shakes his head again. His life seems to be fucking with him, hard-core, and he doesn't know what's going on, but he thinks ignorance is probably bliss. His mind asks him, _/Who are you, pet?/_ and he ignores the fact that his subconscious uses a shitty English accent.

"Who am I?" he echoes aloud, not really expecting an answer.

"God's Hand, I think," Clerk says calmly.

"God's __Hand__?" Guard asks, indignantly. "Why not God's Foot or His big, fat Dick?"

Xander listens curiously.

"You're so nasty," Clerk says. "And besides, God's Hand sounds better."

"I think we should give the man a choice," the black man responds confidently.

Clerk blinks, "Whatever do you mean?"

"Here, now, my man," Guard says, and Xander realizes he's being addressed, "What bit of God would you like to be?"

"His __Hand__ of course, so shut up, shut up!"

"Why not His Foot? Hermes was God's Foot and he always got some action. Or maybe God's Tongue..." Guard elbows Xander lightly in the ribs and snickers, "You could be a divine eater of pussy."

"I beg your pardon!" the older man says, clearly offended, "God's Tongue speaks God's Word - His Holy Heavenly Voice!"

Guard glances at Xander, and Xander thinks he sees red flash in the dark eyes. "How about God's Dick? You could fuck the world."

"Enough, enough," Clerk cries, holding up his hands, "Fine, you shut up and we'll let him pick."

The Guard gets a smug look on his face, and both men turn to stare at Xander.

Xander's lost, but it's nothing new. Even Spike said it - he's a no one and a nothing. He's the fucking comic relief. But he thinks about what they've said, and he thinks that maybe he's got a chance. A chance to be more than the fucking Donut Boy.

"Speak up, speak up! All God's Bits must be assigned, you know." Clerk's tapping his foot impatiently.

Not even sparing the man a glance, Xander's mind kicks into overdrive. He thinks about Anya. He thinks about Spike and Drusilla. He thinks about Buffy and Willow. But mostly he thinks about Anya.

"Vengeance," he breathes softly.

Guard drops his flashlight in surprise and Clerk exclaims, "Oh, dear!"

"Eh... you sure about that, man?" Guard stares at him through worried eyes. "'Cause, like, God's already got His Vengeance. You could have the job if you really want it, but you'd have to kill God's current Vengeance, and he's a tough son of a bitch"

Xander just nods and Clerk glares at his companion as if to say, "This is all __your__ fault."

Turning to his podium, Clerk picks up a quill and dips it in a small vial of ink. He opens something that looks like a heavy, leather-bound book, and asks, all business, "Name?"

There's a tiny little pause, and Xander knows that most people don't think he's got much up in his head other than a couple of cobwebs and every line of Monty Python and the Holy Grail memorized, but he also knows that if he's going down in a divine fucking book, he doesn't want to be recorded as a Harris. So, smiling, he says, "Alexander Theron."

"Oh, man..." Xander glances at Guard who's white as a sheet. The man's shaking his head and Xander feels kind of bad that there isn't a toilet in the room, 'cause he's a bit on the green side, too.

"This __is__ all your fault," Clerk says, but he records the name. Then he asks, "Species?"

Xander smiles, all teeth, and says, "Human."

"No way, man. No fuckin' __way__." Guard sits down on the chair and starts to rock back and forth.

Clerk looks a little pasty, and he laughs, all nervous jitters, "Here now, boy. Don't play with us like that. Humans don't make it here, you know." He pauses, takes a deep, calming breath, and presses, "What are you? Vampire? Brakish Demon? Elemental?"

Xander's still smiling, and he thinks of Spike. "Me?" he says, and he can feel the hysterical laughter pressing the back of his throat, "I'm just the Donut Boy."

o

Note: Theron is Latin for "Hunter."

o


	3. Choices

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 3: Choices

o

So Xander's standing there, still smiling, and the Guard's shaking his head and the Clerk's nibbling on his lower lip.

"I didn't think it was __that__ prophecy," the black man says in a tiny voice. "I mean, c'mon, man, you __know__ the shit's gonna hit the fan when it comes out that I just __handed__ him the choice."

"The damage has been done," Clerk responds with a sigh. "It's not like you could have changed anything. When He speaks, His words always come to pass. You know that as well as I do."

"Yeah, man, but still..." Guard looks directly at Xander, then turns his face away and mumbles, "The Hunter, man. Fuckin' hell, the fuckin' __Hunter__."

Xander doesn't like people talking about him like he's some piece of meat, so he clears his throat and says, "So, do I kill God's Vengeance now, or is there some sort of grace period?"

Clerk stares at him and responds quietly, "You're entitled to a grace period, if you want it. A year of training wherein you learn the duties of your selected position."

Cocks his head to the side as if considering, but Xander's just stalling. He already knows what his answer's going to be, but it's kind of fun to see the two men holding their breath as they wait for his answer. Nobody's __ever__ hung on his words before, so he milks it for a few minutes and starts to understand the power trip.

"Nah," he finally says, and he listens to the air rush out of their lungs. "I think I'll just get it over with now. I kinda' want to go back home. My girlfriend's probably worried."

"Eh..." Guard's swallowing hard and his voice is sort of squeaky as he says, "Just so you know, my man, there isn't anybody waitin' for you. I mean, like, you've been wiped out of the memories of everyone who knew you."

"__What__?" Xander yells, taking a step towards the hapless Guard who hunkers down in his chair.

"Don't shoot the messenger, man."

Xander realizes that the black man is actually __scared__ of him, and he knows what it's like trying to give out information when you're pissing your pants, so he turns to Clerk. A tiny part of his mind, though, dwells on the fact that Guard's afraid of __him__, of Xander Harris, the freakin' Zeppo, and he wonders a little, but he pushes the thought to the side.

"Care to elaborate on that, old man?" Xander asks, his entire body ultra-tense, like he's just finished a late-night patrol with Buffy and been so close to death that he can taste it on his tongue.

"W-well," Clerk stutters, and Xander feels the fear there, as well, "Your... ah... __particular__ p-prophecy is a bit... unique. As far as the r-rest of the world is concerned... well... you d-don't exist."

Xander thinks about that for a few minutes, plays out the possibilities in his head. He doesn't __exist__? So his parents, shits that they are, are probably struggling to pay off the mortgage without his extra four hundred a month. He wonders if that means that Anya's still living with them. His beautiful girl brings up a whole other line of thought, and he wonders if she's already fucking someone else. Buffy, Giles, and Dawnie won't be too traumatized, and if he's honest with himself, Willow's got Tara and she wasn't really his bestest bud even before she didn't remember him.

Blue eyes and blonde hair come to his mind, and he realizes that Spike won't __remember__, and it doesn't make him feel much better that he's stuck remembering, but at least the blonde can't gloat. That is, if he ever sees the blonde again. But the Vengeance thing makes him realize that he __will__ see Spike again because even if Spike doesn't know what he did, Xander does.

And right now, Xander's just a little pissed.

So maybe he finally snaps because his life has thrown him through the loop one too many times, or maybe it's because he doesn't fucking __exist__ anymore, but he feels something inside of him just... slip.

He's not innocent anymore, not that he thought he ever was, but he murdered poor ol' Tommy Greenwich, and Spike fucked him through the carpet. Somehow he knows that he's definitely committed one full-fledged sin with the whole, "Thou shalt not kill," thing, and he thinks that being fucked by an evil undead asshole probably ranks up there somewhere too.

The Clerk and the Guard are looking at him, concern and fear wrapped up into one tight little package, and he realizes that he's laughing.

He can't help it though because it just __figures__.

All his life he's been fucked, and he's just now starting to realize it. A brief little jaunt down romance-memory lane leaves him empty because there was a bug-lady, an Incan Princess, a cheerleader, a rogue Slayer, and an ex-demon, and fuck if that's not one of the most pathetic things he's ever heard.

He thinks about every wall he's gotten up-close and personal with, every demon who's tried to nab him for a late-night, Xander-shaped buffet, every girl who's smiled at him and told him that he was a loser. He remembers every snide little remark and comment cracked at his expense. And then he realizes that out of everyone who's fucked him, only Spike was kind enough to do it to his face.

His laughter ceases abruptly.

Regarding both men with a long, weighty stare, he sits down on his haunches and says, "So, like, do I kill Vengeance here, or is there some sort of divine arena I should go to?"

o

It's like, twenty minutes later, and Xander wishes he has a watch on him, just so he can make a point to look at it while he's tapping his foot. Surreal, he thinks to himself, because he's waiting for God's Vengeance to show up. He doesn't think many people can say that in context.

Clerk is getting whiter by the minute, and Guard's staring at the ceiling, which is to say, he's looking anywhere but at Xander. For the umpteenth time, Xander wonders about this prophecy, but wondering doesn't get him anywhere because he's bored.

Finally he gets sick of the silence and snaps, "Clerk."

Both of his companions jump, and Xander has to smile because, maybe, just maybe, the soldier in his head is a little closer to the surface than he thinks. Still, it feels sort of nice to see he can command their attention so easily, and again he wonders why. Mojo and prophecy are involved, but he figures he has more important things to worry about.

"Sorry," he says, though he's not in the least, and they know it. "But, y'know, I'm the silly, clueless human and all, and I figure while we're waiting we can play some fill-in-the-blanks."

Guard starts to shake his head, like it's a wicked, bad idea, but Xander just looks at him and says, "I won't press if you don't want to tell, but I'm sort of lost because __everyone__ seems to have a better idea of what's going on than I do."

He thinks that reassures them a little, because Clerk quietly asks, "What do you want to know?"

Xander shrugs, shoulders rise and fall unconcerned, and he says, "What do __you__ think I should know?"

Clerk pinches the bridge of his nose and it reminds him of Giles, and there's a brief ache in his chest, but he ignores it because he knows it won't do any good. If he had the whole team doing the research thing, they could probably find a way around the little, "Forget-me-now," clause, but that's the problem at its crux.

"Tricky," Guard mutters, keeping the words short. "Tricky, tricky, tricky."

"You can't go back to wherever it is you came from for three years," Clerk answers, after a short pause wherein Xander __knows__ he's weighing his words very, very carefully.

He decides to bite; after all, the worst that can happen is that he doesn't get an answer. "Why not?"

"It's... it's part of that grace period. When one accepts a position like this, there's always someone left behind, and rather than keep those wounds fresh, they're given a little time to heal."

"So," Xander asks curiously, "Does that mean it's the generally unacceptable thing to do, or does it mean there's actually going to be something __preventing__ me from going back to Sunnydale?"

"Shit!"

Xander glances at Guard who's got both hands clapped over his mouth, and Xander reads the expression on his face because it's like looking into a mirror - someone's been naughty and stuck their fingers in the cookie jar.

"Something prevents it," Clerk cuts in smoothly.

"Anything else?" Xander asks, still eyeing Guard curiously.

"It's fair enough to assume that you don't know anything about what happens when a position is taken by force rather than assigned -" the old man begins, and Xander can't help it.

He snickers. Just a little.

"It's fair enough to assume that I don't know anything about __anything__, Sherlock, but let's get to your point."

Clerk clears his throat and Xander realizes that he's frightened the man again. There's more stuttering, but he gets the gist. "F-for example, if you k-killed God's V-vengeance, his knowledge would be p-p-passed to you."

_/Ah,/ _Xander's mind-voice thinks sagely, _/Use the force, young grasshopper./_

"I-it's a way to insure that experience will be p-preserved, and p-part of what m-makes God's m-messengers d-divine."

Xander thinks this over for a few minutes and says, "Huh. So, let's say, hypothetically, that a demon or a vampire lived long enough to acquire all this precious knowledge and experience... would that make them divine?"

"S'never happened before," Guard piped up hesitantly. "All demons are eventually offed by somethin' bigger'n'badder on the food chain."

"Huh," Xander says again, and he opens his mouth to continue when he realizes that the Clerk and the Guard are not the only two people in the room because they're looking at someone behind him and his skin's crawling.

Slowly, not really hesitant but looking to delay the inevitable, Xander turns around.

White-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and it's not Spike but the similarities are enough to make Xander flinch. The leather helps. It's good that the man's tall and a bit on the bulky side though, because he figures this is God's Vengeance, and he zones in on the muscles and the height factor and puts a certain evil undead asshole out of his mind.

"You the upstart?"

"I've been called worse."

And then they're circling, sort of slow. Sizing each other up, and Xander __knows__ this is a freaking divine __entity__, and he's just the comic relief, but he's blonde-haired and blue-eyed, like Hilter's fucking Aryan race, and Xander fucking __hates__ him.

Lips drawn back, teeth bared, and Xander thinks the testosterone in the room is kicking into overdrive because there's something about this fight that's downright feral. It's a slow start, but the engines rev and it's like the racetrack when the checkered flag has just been thrown.

It's savage and it's brutal, but the hyena's cackling in his mind and the soldier's whispering for him to take a certain opening or block a certain way, and it's strange, but he's got two coaches in his head giving him the pep-talk __and__ the offense/defense plan all at once.

There's blood dripping down his face and it films his eyes over like a red haze, but some of it's rage, or so Xander thinks, and he and Vengeance are fucking tearing each other apart. Blood's in his mouth and the hyena is happy, but he so refuses to go there because somehow he knows it's not his own blood.

Slashing claws, closed fists, and sharp teeth are all mixed in there somewhere, and they're just pounding the crap out of each other like a drunken brawl, but there's no alcohol in sight and Xander knows this. Almost wishes he'd had a little beforehand to dull the pain, but his father's been doing this to him since he was born and Xander's very, very good at blocking everything out.

Blood, flecks of it, little splatters on the grey wall and floors, and Xander suppresses a snicker as he wonders what it would take to get on the ceiling. And then he's charging forward because Spike's slashing at him with sharp, pointy teeth, and he hates him so very much.

There's rage inside of him, blood red and boiling hot, and he's always been scared to go this far before. Every time this happens when he and the nasties in the cemetery are duking it out, he's been afraid to follow through; and sure he's gotten his ass handed to him for it, but he's less afraid of the things that go bump in the night than he is the darkness inside of him.

But it's different this time, and he can __feel__ it because he wants the darkness. He's craving it like a chocoholic craves that ten-pound Hershey bar they only sell in specialty shops, and there's a healthy dose of guilt there, too, but nothing matters because there's blood on his hands and blood in his mouth, and Spike has to fucking __die_._

And then it's over.

He's got the blonde pinned to the floor, hands around the pale throat, staring into the wide blue eyes, and suddenly it's not Spike who he's killing slowly. It's just an angel with an uncanny resemblance.

Breathing hard, Xander lets him go. Leaves him gasping for air on the floor and stands up. Wipes his bloody hands on his pants, and in his heart he wishes it were that easy.

Vengeance isn't dead, but he's breathing like he's getting laid - hot, heavy, and wet.

_/Was it good for you?/_ Xander's mind snickers.

He might be dying, but he's not dead yet, and there's this itsy, bitsy little struggle in Xander's head. The soldier's barking orders at him, demanding he finish what he started, and the hyena wants a late-night snack, and it's all he can do to not drop to his knees and sink his teeth in.

But the real problem he finds himself facing is humanity. To take someone else's life, knowing they don't deserve it.

There's something like relief on Vengeance's face, and he mutters, "Don't fight it, kid. You're human. It's natural." And Xander thinks he's probably just looking to save his own ass.

Spike cured him of a little hang-up he had about murdering the wicked, be they human, demon, or anything in between, but the question on Xander's mind is Vengeance. Do the righteous deserve to die?

And maybe the man doesn't, but the thing is, Xander's pretty sure that if Vengeance was standing over him, there wouldn't be any hesitation. Finally he says softly, "Hey, Ven."

Vengeance stares up at him, and Xander smiles, but it doesn't make it to his eyes. "If a tree falls on a mime in the forest, does anyone care?"

And there's the widening of eyes, and a hasty sort of maneuver to scramble backwards, but Xander's made his choice, and he lifts his foot and slams it down hard, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clerk and Guard turn their heads sharply to one side.

Xander stares down at the man at his feet. _/The king is dead,/_ his mind whispers wickedly_. /Long live the king./_ And he feels the memories of a thousand lifetimes in his head, and it's probably enough to drive a man crazy, but Xander's already short a couple of crayons in the coloring box. He tells the soldier in his head to start organizing, and at least a third of him can follow orders.

"So..." he finally says as he toes the body distastefully, "That's it, then?"

Clerk coughs, "Yes. You are God's Vengeance."

Shaggy, dark-haired head snaps up, and Xander bites out, "What if I don't want the responsibility?"

"You don't have a choice," Clerk says, taking a step back.

"Ah-ah," Xander waggles a finger, going from dark and creepy to oversized kid with an I-know-something-you-don't-know smile in less than a second. "Here's the thing. God gave us humans the right to choose."

"He did," the old man responds uncertainly. "You are the first mortal to make it this far."

"Well then," Xander grins, all teeth, but his eyes are black and empty. "I guess I'd have to say... fuck Him."

Guard looks up from his hunkered position on his chair, startled into saying, "What?"

Xander's laughing because he seems to be the only one who gets the fucking cosmic joke. "Fuck God," he says, mouth curling, "Fuck all of this. Maybe it's not right, or whatever, but this is my choice. I was brought here, I killed God's Vengeance, and now I'm renouncing half of that title. I am my __own__ vengeance."

"You can't... you can't do that," Clerk splutters.

There's a hint of madness in Xander's eyes that asks, why not?

"Because..." And now Xander knows he has them because the old man is struggling to find the words. "Because God must have His Vengeance!"

"Yeah, yeah." Xander's unimpressed and it shows. "Well, He can dirty His Hands with His problems. If something pisses Him off, He can take care of it Himself."

Xander wants out, and the knowledge comes to him unbidden. He knows how to leave because Vengeance knows how to leave, and he calls the power into himself.

"Why are you doing this?" Guard asks as the energy in the room ripples.

"Easy," Xander smiles. "God hates me."

Clerk whispers, "What are you going to do?"

And now Xander has to laugh, and it's a sick, demented sort of sound, but he finds that nothing really matters anymore, so he just rides the wave. The energy in the room buckles, and Xander's gone, but his words linger and another tiny piece of prophecy snaps into place.

"Hate him back."

o


	4. Lawyers

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 4: Lawyers

o

It's kind of funny how life works out, or so Xander thinks as he makes his way through the empty streets of Los Angeles. It's a trashy sort of area, and heaps of garbage are piled high against the alley walls. Occasionally he sees a weathered face or two peeking out from cardboard boxes but he pays the bums no mind.

Vengeance is dead, and the memories that he doesn't recognize in his head are uncharted territory. Not like the soldier or the hyena, not like another presence who's taken up residence in his head, which he believes is of the good because he doesn't think there's much more space left up there. Entertains the notion of charging rent, which makes him snicker.

He feels a little different. He used to be Xander, but that was two days ago and now he's something else entirely. A little less... human. Maybe he's faster and stronger, but he's reliving the memory of chips of teeth and blood exploding as he stomps on Vengeance's face and wishing it was Spike.

It frightens him a little bit, that he can think of the killing so easily. Even more, he knows he can and will kill again.

The first man he killed was a rapist. The first angel he killed was Vengeance. And the first demon he killed wore the face of his best friend.

But their blood was all the same.

It's tinged his hands and soul a dark crimson, and being Xander Harris feels so very far away.

o

His feet lead him to a small, seedy club in the very heart of the city. A glance at the bouncer and he knows it's not the sort of place that humans frequent unless they're brought in as dinner.

A smile curves his lips as he decides he can use a drink.

There's a little skip in his step as he makes his way to the entrance, and the bouncer, Big Ugly, holds a hand up to stop him as he makes for the door.

"You're not allowed in here," says a grating voice. Xander studies him covertly - not a vampire, but definitely a demon. Forehead's a little off, and temples are dented in a major way that leads Xander to believe that the man has horns but can retract them somehow. Hair's dark black, but he sees shadowy green highlights and the fingernails on the hand in front of him are a tad on the pointy side. Unnaturally blue eyes, which put in mind someone he'd rather not be thinking about.

_/Glensquay demon,/_ a foreign voice in his head whispers.

_/Gesundheit,/_ he thinks.

Xander remembers a little bit about Glensquay demons; he figures either it's from his new memories or maybe from one of the many research-fests he's pulled. He finds he also knows how to speak Glensquay-ese, which he knows is a new development, and a wicked idea crosses his mind.

"Kis'catha o'tori. M'lathawai?" Xander's smile is half-serious and he tilts his head to the side a little.

_/Your eyes are pretty. May I have them?/_

The demon's reaction is both comical and gratifying. Big Ugly takes a step back, stumbling a little, and the look on his face is nearly priceless. Said eyes are wide and blinking.

"O'lensni?" he whispers.

_/What are you?/_

"M'la?" Xander answers, still smiling. "M'tesquai jar'gwa."

_/Me? I'm the comic relief./_

"... O'thuwa Lus'sanguine."

_/... Welcome to Club Sanguine./_

And Big Ugly takes a slow step away from the door, hands still raised, though this time Xander thinks it's more of a "Don't hurt me," gesture than a warning. Actually, he knows so; he's used it several times himself when fleeing the Big Bads of the Night.

This is the first time anyone's used it on him, though.

Xander smiles, but it doesn't quite make it to his eyes. Tipping an imaginary hat to the bouncer, he opens the door and steps inside.

o

_/Werewolves and demons and vamps, oh my!/_ Xander's mind snickers as his eyes wander lazily over the masses. He's never been in a demon club before; Willy's was more of a hometown bar. As he glances at the heavy black and crimson satin drapes that line the walls, and the surrealistic Gothic vibe the entire place is giving off, he's pretty sure this place is anything but.

The mix of demons is an interesting one; vampires in full game-face, and a plethora of scaly, creepy, and slimy others are enough to send his Xandy-sense into overload. Maybe it's just the strobe lights, but he feels as though a fit of epilepsy should hit him sometime soon.

What's infinitely more disturbing, in his mind, is that he __recognizes__ these demons. He knows their races, their languages, their strengths and their weaknesses. Two days ago, he was the token idiot for his group; now he thinks he'd be able to hold his own against Giles, without the books. That depresses him just a little. Giles doesn't know who he is, after all.

He wades through the crowds, ignoring the looks of disbelief from several of the demons he passes, and finally settles down at the bar.

A series of grunts and clicks greets him, and his mind translates the strange noises as the bartender asking him what he'll have to drink. Xander sends a few questioning clicks back, gets a gurgle of affirmation in reply, and grunts his order out. A minute later, the wispy bartender sets a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass down in front of him, and he wheezes a terse thanks.

The vampire next to him smiles, all teeth, and asks, "Where'd a cunt like you learn to speak Grenchix?"

"Paid attention in school," Xander answers in a bored voice as he opens the bottle and pours himself a shot.

"Ooh!" the vampire hisses, "Cattle's got a backbone, does he?"

Xander doesn't even dignify that with a reply as he downs his first shot. His persecutor has shit-brown eyes, but the wavy blonde hair is enough to make him hate the demon.

A fist slams down in front of Xander, shaking the bar and rattling the bottle of JD. The noise draws the attention of the patrons around them, and the vampire growls, "I can hear your heartbeat, human. I can smell the blood in your veins."

"All I can hear," Xander replies, perfectly aware that the rest of the club is leaning forward to listen, "is something that sounds suspiciously like my dog passing wind."

"You stupid little-"

Xander smoothly interrupts the vampire as he continues, "And all I can smell is yesterday's trash."

There's a grumble from the crowd and Xander figures they're waiting for the vampire to make him into a human piñata. He gets a funny mental picture of himself tied to a tree as the demons take turns whacking him with a bat and lapping his candy-flavored blood from the ground. It's enough to make him snicker.

"You're not afraid," the vampire sneers. "That's pretty fucking stupid of you."

"It's kind of hard to fear you guys when you get your dialogue from cheesy B-rated horror flicks."

A shift in the air alerts him, and Xander raises his hand to grab the vampire's arm before it can grab him. His eyes are nearly black and he slips a hand into his pocket and pulls out a familiar wooden stake. It's against the vampire's heart before the demon even has the time to blink.

There's fear in the brown eyes now. It's an expression Xander's getting used to seeing.

"Agliophobia," Xander says. "It means, 'fear of pain.'"

The vampire is holding himself very still, eyeing the sliver of wood. He licks his lips and mutters, "Kill me, boy, and this whole fuckin' place will tear you apart."

Xander ignores him. "I used to be agliophobic. But pain seems like a stupid thing to fear."

Demons are whispering to each other, and all eyes are locked on the unusual scene of a human terrorizing a vampire.

"Why?" Xander asks, but it's a redundant question. He slips the stake into the vampire's heart, sliding smoothly between the third and fourth ribs for a clean kill.

"'Cause everything hurts."

And that's the signal. The mouthy vampire's ashes are scattered to the wind, and more soon follow. It's like the fucking gray Christmas that is his life, and he's a blur. There are a good sixty demons in the club, all out for his blood. Not, he suspects, because he killed the vampire. It's more a matter of pride; he's a human, and he had the audacity to show his face in an elite demon club.

Not that it really matters, though.

They're all walking dead, anyway.

o

_/So, this is it,/_ Xander thinks as he slips a cigarette from a stray pack on the counter and lights it.

He's Vengeance, the self-named Hunter. He can probably do just about anything. But what he wants... what he __really__ wants... is to kill Spike. The problem, though, is that Spike's in Sunnydale and there's a little clause in his contract that says he has a good three years before he can go back there.

Three years is a long time to wait, and it's possible that Spike might move around, but to kill the vampire, Xander first needs to find him.

He has knowledge, now. He also has strength and speed. But then there's that little half of his new occupation that he kept, and he doubts he'll be able to keep his newfound abilities without paying the price.

Vengeance. The infliction of punishment in return for a wrong committed. In short, retribution.

He has his own vengeance to carry out. But he feels a little idea tickling the back of his mind, and the more he thinks about it, the more he smiles.

It'll take time, of course. Then again, he has plenty of time, now.

It'll take money, undoubtedly. But he can make money.

He'll need some connections. But connections can be bought.

And in the end, he thinks, it'll be __more__ than worth the effort.

So he starts to laugh.

The bouncer from outside peeks his misshapen head in, critically eyeing the damages, jaw comically slack. The room's a bloodbath; bits of demons are strewn about like so much waste. He stares at the dark-haired mortal who sits at the bar, untouched, cigarette dangling lazily from smiling lips, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Te... te'lensni?"

_/What... what __is__ this?/_

Xander snickers, and his voice is hollow, but there is a shadow of humor. He sweeps a hand around in a grandiose gesture and says, "This? This is just the beginning."

And somewhere another wheel on the great machine of prophesy stirs and begins to turn with a click, click, click.

o

Lindsey resists the urge to sigh, knowing it's both pointless and a waste of energy. He's a lawyer, for God's sake; he knows how to school his expressions better than anyone else, but the urge is there, and the desire to repress it follows closely behind.

Ha glances at Lilah who walks briskly at his side, her silent footfalls matching his own.

God, how he loathes the woman.

Nevertheless, he keeps his face neutral. Business is business, after all.

They're heading to Lindsey's office to pick up some files for a mutual case. It's late and no one else, save the security guards, should be in the building. The low lighting gives off the standard doom-and-gloom sort of vibe, but it's nothing new to either of them.

Lindsey opens the door to his office and they enter silently. The door closes behind them with an audible click, and before either of them can take a single step forward, they hear a soft laugh.

"So, there's a nun, a priest, and a lawyer outside a burning school," someone says to the left of them, and Lindsey and Lilah jump, surprised. It's late, and no one's supposed to be in Lindsey's office and they know it.

The two of them are looking around, and the voice continues, "And the nun says, 'Save the children!'"

They also know that to get into the office without permission is impossible. Wolfram and Hart have connections, all of which were somehow involved in the defenses regarding the headquarters.

There's a hint of amusement in the voice now, and it whispers across their skin like someone tiptoeing across their graves. "And the priest says, 'Oh, fuck the children!'"

A slender, dark-haired man steps out of the shadows, a smile on his face. His eyes are black and empty.

Xander grins, "And the lawyer... well, the lawyer says, 'Do you think we have the time?'"

Lindsey blinks, studying the man. He seems familiar somehow, but Lindsey can't quite put his finger on it.

"Don't like that one?" Xander asks. "How about this - what's the difference between a dead dog in the road and a dead lawyer in the road?"

"What?" Lilah asks.

"Easy," Xander says lazily. "There are skid marks in front of the dog."

Lindsey's hand sneaks out to press the alarm button, and then he's crying out in pain. Lilah glances over and sees a knife imbedded in his hand, and she looks back at Xander who has a grin on his face. She never even saw the man move.

"Tough crowd," Xander says.

"What do you want?" Lilah asks, ignoring the man at her feet who's clutching his hand and gritting his teeth in pain.

"Well," Xander drawls, "I have a little proposition for you."

Lilah walks over to Lindsey's desk and slides into his chair. She gestures for Xander to take the other seat.

"You want to bring Angelus back." Xander glances at the chair, and instead opts to stand next to the frightened lawyer. "I think that's pretty dumb, but then, you __are__ lawyers, after all."

He begins to pace, slowly circling the desk, and the image of a cat toying with a mouse crosses through Lilah's mind. Her face is painfully locked into a pleasant smile, though.

"Now, you've been doing a piss-poor job of the whole thing." Xander's footfalls are silent. "But then, you really have no idea how his mind works, do you?"

Lilah says quietly, "Wolfram and Hart has done extensive research on the individual known as Angel, and we've acted accordingly. You must realize that we can't simply strike out at him blindly; we need to keep the company safe, and -"

"-and you've been doing a piss-poor job of __that__, as well." Xander spares a glance at Lindsey, who's still obviously in pain, but his eyes are following them, and he's focused on what Xander's saying.

"I'm here for two reasons. First, I have a rather... intense... dislike of Angel. And second, I believe you guys pay pretty well. Which is why I think I'd like to be both a client and a... what's the politically correct word...?" Xander pauses, head cocked to the side. He takes a moment, considers, and finally continues, "Ah! That's right. A client and a __consultant__."

The woman knows that Wolfram and Hart will never accept those terms, especially not from some unknown wildcard like the man who's circling her.

"Well, Mr...?"

"Theron."

"Well, Mr. Theron, I'm sure we can work something out," Lilah says with a small smile. "We'll need some background information before you can apply for... consultant... work, and we'll need some other information before we can open your account with us. If you'd be so kind as to accompany me to my office, I can get the necessary paperwork-"

"Hey, Lilah," Xander says suddenly, "How can you tell when a lawyer is lying?"

Lilah blinks, then pushes the chair back and starts to stand up. Xander reaches forward and grabs her by the throat, still smiling. In a quick movement, he snaps her neck and drops her body to the floor.

Staring down at her, he smiles. "Her lips are moving."

He glances over to Lindsey who's staring at the limp body on the floor.

"Hey, Lindsey?"

"Yes, Mr. Theron?"

"You think you can handle all my affairs?" And something in those black eyes tells Lindsey that this man will know if he's lying or not.

He answers honestly, "I can try."

"Good enough." Xander strides over and grabs the hilt of the knife, then slides the dagger out of other man's hand.

Lindsey suppresses a cry of pain, and as he looks up, he sees a smile on the shadowed face. Slivers of light glint off the blood-darkened blade and the madness in the young man's eyes.

"See you tomorrow, then." Xander turns to leave.

"Mr. Theron?" Lindsey knows he's playing with fire.

"Hm?"

It's like a moth to the fucking __flame__, or so Lindsey thinks, but if he can prove himself with this... "How many lawyers does it take to paint the Great Wall of China red?"

There's a pause, then Xander's doubled over, laughing so hard he needs to lean against the wall for support.

"Why, Lindsey, it depends entirely on how hard you throw them."

o

"So, that's it, then," Guard says softly, eyes fixed on the body of the ex-Vengeance. He doesn't know how long he's been staring, but he can't bring himself to care.

Clerk nods and sighs, "The Vengeance of God gone rogue."

Guard glances up at the gray ceiling and whispers, "I think we pretty much fucked __this__ one up, Big Guy."

o


	5. Legends

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 5: Legends

o

And so the rumors begin. Fanged mouths whisper in hushed tones as they speak of Alexander the Hunter.

He just waltzed into the demon community one day and destroyed the patrons of one of the most popular nightclubs in all of L.A. The club's still open, and some say he still frequents it, but there aren't anymore massacres so no one dwells on it.

Alexander the Hunter. No one knows much about him, but legends have a way of making themselves. Legends also have a way of remaking history. And this Alexander seems to be doing both.

There's speculation, of course. Some say he's the son of Satan. No, others whisper, he's the Devil himself! He's a fallen angel, another of God's failures. No, no, others cry, he's not an angel __or__ a demon. He's surpassed both and simply __is__. Not a creature of the Lord of the Light or the Prince of the Dark, but a greater being who's been here all along.

There're even some who say he's the Vengeance of God gone rogue, but that's absurd, or so everyone __else__ says.

Reports come in from all over the city, though. Reports of demons killed and of demons saved, and always at their center is a dark-haired youth with black, empty eyes.

No one can seem to find a pattern. But then, that's part of the reason demons fear him so much. He's the unknown. The wild card.

Some call him Master. Some call him Harbinger. Some don't speak of him at all for fear they might call his wrath down upon them.

It's even rumored that one demon had the nerve to ask him directly. It's said that the Hunter laughed and replied, "Me? I'm just the Donut Boy."

It's also said that particular demon died before he heard the answer.

There are many things said about him. It's said that to the human world, he's known in the underground as a hitman, a killer in cold blood. It's also said that he works for Wolfram and Hart, but at the same time, he supposedly __loathes__ lawyers, policemen, and all figures of authority. He kills enough of them, after all.

He's an angel. He's a demon. He's a killer. He's a fucking __god__.

No one truly seems to know him.

But all know __of__ him - the dark-haired youth with black, empty eyes who smiles at death.

o

"So," Xander asks, the ever-present twist of a smile on his face, eyes as black and cold as midnight, "What's it to be tonight? Business or pleasure?"

Lindsey has long since learned to drop his own pretense of a smile, with Xander at least. It happened about the same time he'd realized that Xander isn't joking when he refers to his consultant work as "pleasure."

He remembers the day well - it haunts his dreams and seems to have taken a permanent residency in the darkest corners of his mind. One of the few occasions he'd been witness to the Hunter's work firsthand, and that memory alone was the stuff of nightmares.

A classic "cleaner" job - oh, and how Lindsey loves that expression, as if taking someone to the Chinese Laundromat on the corner of Fifth and Welsh can possibly compare with the casual slaughter an appointment with Xander promises.

At that time two Relsnik demons, once clients of Wolfram and Hart, had a falling out with the company and had started making waves that no one wanted to deal with. Relsniks - half machine, half hellspawn - are like the skinheads of the demon community. Ruthless, cold-hearted, and more than capable of backing up whatever they choose, they aren't afraid of anything or anyone. The two Relsniks in question hadn't been any different.

This particular pair had believed they could protect themselves and had agreed to meet with Lindsey for an exorbitant payoff that would ensure their silence. Subsequently, they would retire to a cozy little mansion in the heart of Hawaii and spend the rest of their one hundred years in pre-paid comfort.

Xander had still been new to the company, and it had been agreed that his first assignment would be a test of sorts. In the company's mind it had been a win-win situation. If Xander succeeded, he would receive the generous payoff meant for his two targets and __anyone__ who could take down __two__ Relsnik demons would be a valued asset to the company. If, on the other hand, he failed, Wolfram and Hart would be rid of a client they had no knowledge of, the Relsniks would be out of their hair, and no one would be the wiser.

In retrospect, the situation had been more than a little surreal, or so Lindsey thinks - two demonic __tanks__ pitted against a single, fragile mortal.

The demons hadn't stood a chance.

That night at the meeting, Xander had been the embodiment of dark grace and lethal power. Blood on the walls, blood on the ceiling, and blood on a stunned Lindsey's face as he leaned over his desk to stare. Xander, towering over the broken bodies of two barely conscious demons, and all Lindsey had seen was that damned smile on his face.

"Hey, Lindsey," Xander had said softly, "How many Relsnik demons does it take to paint the Great Wall of China red?"

Still stunned, Lindsey had replied, "It depends on how hard you throw them."

Soon after, Xander had left and one of the higher-ups had stopped in to see how everything had played out. He'd peeked his white-haired head into the office, and his eyes had gone wide at the sight of the carnage.

"Where are the bodies?" his superior had asked.

And silently, Lindsey had lifted his hand and pointed at the walls.

Not even a month had passed before Xander had become known as one of the company's most valued assets.

The present catches up with Lindsey's wandering mind, filtering slowly through the red haze, and the lawyer finds himself leaning on that same desk, and Xander's eyes are fixed on his own.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Lindsey hands over the newest clientele folder and whispers, "Pleasure."

He closes his eyes, hoping to block the response he knows is coming, but in the darkness, Lindsey can see that Xander's smile is already there.

o

Xander's done very well for himself, or so he thinks as he lounges on the leather couch in his apartment and admires the penthouse view. He's got it all: the amazing pad, the stretch Hummer, the money, the connections. He walks into any room and people part for him like Moses and the fucking Red Sea.

But all he wants is what he can't have. All he wants is Spike - a begging, bleeding Spike - at his feet. He wants to wipe the smile from the blonde's mouth. He wants to see the light fade from those baby blues.

He's obsessed and he knows it.

All he thinks about when he kills is Spike. All his dreams are red and blonde. And the only nightmares that leave him screaming are the ones that live in his memory.

A year has passed, but he's got two more to go, and he needs to find a way to make the days go quicker.

There's a little twist in his smile as he picks up the phone and dials.

o

Ring, ring, ring, and how Angel wants to scream. His phone's been ringing off the hook lately, and it's all because of the damned Hunter. Humans and demons, they all want him to help but he doesn't even know where to begin. Worse, Cordelia isn't around to help as much anymore because she's found the "perfect man" which leaves Wesley sort of broody. Broody Wesley is __not__ a pretty sight, nor is he very helpful.

So that leaves Angel to answer his own damned phone.

The Hunter - God, and how Angel wishes he knew who the __fuck__ this man is. All he has to go on are rumors and the steady trail of bodies that sports no pattern. The Hunter kills indiscriminately, but there's __got__ to be a pattern because he's not your average Cracker Jack serial killer.

Demons, humans, and even one demi-god have called on Angel's services, but it's a losing battle.

This man, this Hunter, is allegedly human, but Angel can't think of any way a human can take down demons like this one does. He supposedly has dark hair and black eyes, but Angel will eat his own hair gel if that isn't the __worst__ description he's ever had to go on. And there's a connection to Wolfram and Hart in there somewhere, but damned if he can find it.

The phone's still ringing, and each grating jingle is like a stake through his heart.

Cordelia's got a boytoy, Wesley's got an unrequited crush, and Gunn never answered the phone to begin with.

Fuck it, or so Angel thinks, because he's trying to fight a man who, for all he knows, doesn't even exist.

Angel picks up the phone and says, "Hello?"

"Hello," a familiar voice answers, though Angel can't quite place it. "May I please speak to Mr. Angel White?"

"Um..." Angel says tactfully, "This is he. Who's speaking?"

"This is Doctor Theron from the California State Hospital. A Miss... Cordelia Chase has you listed as her emergency contact."

"What happened?" and the words are out of Angel's mouth before he even has the time to think.

"Well," the voice says softly, "I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news is that Miss Chase was in a serious accident; she's lost the use of both her arms and her legs."

Angel feels numb, but he manages to whisper, "What's the good news?"

The voice snickers, "I lied. She's dead."

And then Angel's staring at the phone with the dead connection and wondering when he got a heart because he swears he can feel it beating through his chest. The walls are fuzzy and somewhere that seems very far away he hears Wesley asking him why he's crying.

o

There's a little smile on Xander's face as he hangs up the phone. He hears a rustle from the bedroom, and he turns his head a little and watches as Queen C walks through the door wearing nothing but a strategically placed bedsheet.

Dark hair, dark eyes, and God, he remembers every fucking broom closet in Sunnydale.

"'Delia," he says, and his mouth twists a little. "Stay for the night?"

"My boss is going to be worried, Lex!" she giggles, and she's so fucking beautiful, just like he remembers.

It's too easy, Xander thinks, and it really is. He knows his girl, inside and out. He knows how she loves to be spoiled. He knows how money and power call to her like the sirens to Odysseus. And all he'd had to do was to bump into her on the street, offer to take her out for coffee and a chat, and fuck her through the mattress.

He gave her everything she'd ever wanted.

He couldn't wait to see her face when he took it all away.

Xander crooks a finger, and when she slinks over he pulls her into his lap and nuzzles her throat. "Stay," he whispers.

"Mm. I think I could be... persuaded..."

It's too fucking easy; he takes her back to his bed and fucks her.

Every moan makes his skin crawl. Every touch makes him want to run to the shower and wash it all away. But it's a job, or so he thinks, and Xander's learned that when he's working, he does well. Sad as it may be, he still takes pride in the things he does well. It's a means to an end, so he deals.

She whispers little breathy nothings, writhing against him, and maybe she's every man's wet dream come to life, but his mind is more than just a little fucked because the only way he can get off is by closing his eyes.

In his mind, the luscious hair shortens, gelled and bleached. The wide eyes, baby blue, stare up at him, and the thin, tight lips curl in a smile, revealing sharp teeth. The lush curves melt away leaving nothing but sinew and bone and muscle, and the voice deepens, husky and snarky all rolled into one.

The still curved mouth whispers, "Who are you, pet?"

And Xander answers -

- by coming.

o

"Hey, Lex?" Cordelia asks curiously, "Why's the mirror broken?"

Xander glances at the closed bathroom door as he sips his hot chocolate and mindlessly flips through the channels on the tube. _/I told him you were coming over and he committed suicide,/_ his mind whispers.

"Accident," he replies, just loud enough for her to hear. "I've been meaning to get another one, but I never have the time."

"Oh," is all she says, and he pictures her bottom lip curling a little as she wonders how she's going to fix her makeup. There's a pause and she asks, "Do you think you can give me a ride to work today? I want you to meet my friends."

"Love to," Xander says. He fights to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching.

And fails.

o

Angel's sitting in his office with Wesley and Gunn when the knock comes.

They'd been sitting there since the call came in, and had been attempting to support one another. It had worked, to a point, but Wesley was stuck in the denial-stage, Gunn was lost in the anger-stage, and Angel was so busy trying to come up with a bargain for the Powers That Be he'd totally neglected the point of their little therapy session.

So there's the knock, and an all-too-familiar voice calls out, "Anybody home?"

The three men are on their feet instantly as Cordelia opens the door and peeks a head in. She smiles, and Wesley's got tears in his eyes and Gunn and Angel are both too shell-shocked to say anything.

"Geez," Cordelia says, "Who died?"

"You're alive!" Angel finally manages to get out, and though he'll deny it later, there's a squeak in his voice.

"You're alive!" Wesley repeats stupidly, and Gunn echoes the statement a heartbeat later.

"Angel, Wes, Gunn," Cordelia says sternly, "No more drugs."

At their stunned mirror expressions, she continues, "Anyway, you all said you wanted to meet my new boyfriend, so I brought him over." She turns to the open door and makes an impatient gesture with her hands. Someone walks in, but everyone's too focused on the fact that Cordelia's not dead to care.

"Everyone, this is Lex."

"Alexander Theron," a familiar voice corrects.

And that sort of snaps Angel out of his reverie. He looks up, not really sure what to expect, and there's this split-second of confusion before it hits him. Dark hair and black eyes and Angel thinks his hair gel is starting to look pretty freaking tasty right then because it's so stupid and obvious, but so fucking __wrong__. Dark hair, black eyes, and what was the name of the doctor on the phone - Theron, right? - and it's not right, it can't be right, but there it is and there __Lex__ is.

There's a sort of timeless age in the corners of those eyes, and the body's filled out a little bit, but the smile is what gives him away because Angel's __seen__ a smile like that before. Similar but not identical, because __this__ smile is like some sort of sick joke. There's no innocence there, no genuine pleasure, and the word is out of his own mouth before he can stop it.

It's out and sitting heavy in the air, and all Angel can think is that this is so fucking __wrong__.

"Xander?"

o

Note: Elisabeth Kubler-Ross came up with five stages to accepting death (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance), though her context was more of when someone finds out that __they're__ going to die.

o


	6. Revelations

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 6: Revelations

o

There's a little bit of confusion that wrinkles Cordelia's brow as she asks, "You've met before?" and Angel's left wondering what sort of stupid question that is. Of __course__ he knows Xander - Xander Harris, fucking __Zeppo__ - but isn't it strangely convenient that Cordelia can't remember the youth she dated? And it's possible that he's just similar to Xander, and the same first name is a total coincidence because this "Lex" is darker than Xander ever could be -

- but Angel __knows__ he saw a flash of surprise in those once-chocolate eyes.

"What the fuck are you playing at, Xander?" Angel hisses.

The mouth curls a little and Xander says, "Do I know you?"

"You're Alexander Harris! Of __course__ you know me."

"Sorry." Oh, Angel hears the snicker stuck in the back of Xander's throat and growls, even as the young man continues, "I don't believe we've met before. Maybe you've mistaken me for someone else?"

Cordelia's a little pissed at the way Angel's treating her Lexy-bear, Gunn's straight-up confused, and Wesley's still too lost in Cordelia's miraculous resurrection to care.

"Wes," Angel snaps, breaking the once-Watcher from his reverie, "You remember Xander, don't you?"

"Never seen him before in my life," Wesley replies honestly.

So there's confusion and a little bit of anger as Angel turns back to Xander and growls, "I don't know what the fuck you did to them, but __stop__ before I have to hurt you."

"Angel!" Cordelia exclaims, all dismay, "What's your __deal__?"

"Chill out, man," Gunn agrees.

So Angel does the only thing he can. He grabs Xander's arm and drags him to a different room, slamming the door behind them. Gunn and Cordy share a look and Wesley smiles happily and gives Cordelia a hug.

o

Angel shoves Xander roughly onto one of the couches. The vampire remains standing, blocking the door and obviously pulling every trick in the book of how-to-be-an-intimidating-asshole. Growls softly, shows teeth, and it probably would have cowed the Xander-of-old, but isn't it just Angel's shit-luck to be dealing with someone else completely.

"Talk."

Xander waggles a finger, "Manners, Deadboy."

If Angel needs confirmation, the old insult hits him like a nosedive off a twenty-story building. "Xander."

"Alexander, actually. Or Mr. Theron, if you want to get formal about it."

"You're the Hunter," Angel says flatly. There's no doubt in his voice.

"Um, duh," Xander replies, smiling.

"What the hell is going on?"

Xander shrugs, the rise and fall of his shoulders is a single, smooth motion. "Dunno'. Well, actually I do know, but I'd kinda' like to see you try and beat it out of me. Maybe you should bring Wesley in here; you could do the good watcher-evil undead asshole routine."

Angel ignores him. "Why don't they remember you?"

The dark eyes flash and thin lips pull into the sick smile that the vampire's learning to hate. "Better question - why do __you__ remember me?" And Angel catches a tiny glimpse of the boy Xander was when he says softly, "No one else does, you know."

"Buffy? Giles? Willow?"

"Nope. Although I'd love to be here when you call and ask them." Xander snickers, "Maybe they'll think you've gone nuts and try and stake you. Ah," a heartbeat, "but then, the Buffster would __never__ hurt her pwecious widdle Angel-poo, would she?"

"She sent me to hell."

"No, __I__ sent you to hell."

Angel's brow rises sharply, and God, Xander loves that expression.

"But that's neither here nor there. I'd love to send you back to oblivion again, but I've got two years to kill, and you're such a fucking __great__ source of amusement, I'd hate to lose you this soon."

And maybe it's just a trick of the light, but Xander swears he sees a little bit of fear in Angel's eyes. He's used to it, but it's still so sweet to see. Xander's done a lot of studying on that particular topic, and his smile twists. "What are you afraid of, Deadboy?" he asks.

"I-" Angel shakes his head. "This is so fucking __wrong__, Xander."

"Alliumphobia - am I on the right track?"

"What's that?"

Xander snickers, "Fear of garlic."

Angel growls as the dark-haired man continues, "Doesn't strike your fancy? How about eosophobia?"

There's a pause, and Angel knows Xander's waiting for him to ask. He doesn't, just to be contrary.

"Fear of the daylight," Xander finally says, seeing the stubborn set of Angel's jaw. "A personal favorite of mine is athazagoraphobia. But then, I have my reasons."

"What do you __want__?"

There's the barest hesitation before Xander breathes softly, "Blood."

"What?"

"I want your blood."

"You're insane."

"No," Xander replies, cocking his head to the side as if listening to a voice only he can hear. He smiles and says, "I'm gifted. But let's put all of that aside. Yes, I'm the Hunter. Yes, I'm going to destroy you and everything you hold dear, blah, blah, blah. Here's the thing. No one else remembers me, and I seriously doubt anything you say is going to change their minds."

"Can't you hear Cordelia already?" Xander's falsetto is disturbingly accurate, "'Like, you're __so__ just jealous. So what if he's similar to some guy who you say we all knew, even though no one but you remembers him. He's perfect for me, and can't you just let me be happy for once?'"

Angel winces.

"Or maybe you could corner Wesley and tell him I said she's a terrible fuck."

It's obvious that Angel's not going to get any answers out of the boy, and part of him wants to kick the crap out of Xander until he talks, but another part of him knows that he'll end up as dust on the wind if he tries.

"You're __dead__," Angel growls as he storms out of the room.

Xander blinks, still smiling. He snickers softly, "Oh, dear. Was it something I said?"

o

Xander pulls a disappearing act, but Angel's not too worried. Now he knows his enemy, even if no one else will believe him. A question is on his mind, though, and he corners Wesley and asks, "What's athazagoraphobia?"

Wesley blinks. "The fear of being forgotten."

o

Xander has a plan. It's petty, but, hey, Vengeance here!

Night creeps across the sky and Xander welcomes the darkness with open arms. He's got a smile on his face as he walks, and he almost hopes someone's going to try to take his money or his life. There's nothing more satisfying, or so Xander thinks, than watching the hunters of the night when they find they've become the hunted.

There's a flash of bleach-white hair on the street that catches his eye, though that's nothing new. His Xandy-sense seems to home in on that nowadays, along with blue eyes and leather.

Thing is, there's a sinking feeling in his stomach and an odd flutter in his chest and somehow he __knows__, with a certainty that defies all logic, that this isn't just some guy with blonde hair and blue eyes.

So he follows.

He follows the figure down the street and to a dark, empty alleyway. And then the man turns around and blows a little puff of smoke and fuck it if Xander's not shaking.

"Spike," he breathes.

"Pet?" And there's a question there, but Xander isn't quite sure if he wants to answer it.

"You remember me." And there it is. Flat. Empty.

Two vampires in one day know who he is, and Xander's studied his own prophecy and has to smile grimly. Alive but not living, in memory dead, and doesn't God have a fucked-up sense of humor or what?

"Course." Spike blows a little puff of smoke and says, "Who are you?"

Xander's silent as the grave.

"You __used__ ta be Xander 'arris, the Zeppo, the Donut Boy, the fuckin' comic relief. Bit of an identity crisis, that. But it doesn't much look like that's changed, y'know?"

Spike stares at him and counts off on his fingers, "From Xander 'arris ta Alexander Theron. From the Zeppo ta the 'unter. From the Donut Boy ta the Vengeance of God. From the comic relief ta anythin' but."

Jaws working, Xander's shaking, but he can't get the words past his throat. _/This is fucked,/_ his mind snickers.

"Seems to me you still don't know who you are."

"Spike," Xander says again, and maybe he's being redundant, but that's the only word he can get past the block in his throat.

And then the blonde is slinking over to him and Xander can't even move. Shaking, he can only watch as Spike leans forward, the tight smile only centimeters away from trembling lips.

"I'll be waitin' for you in hell," Spike says.

This is a nightmare, Xander thinks, and then Spike's lips are on his. The vampire's kissing him, and he knows it can't be real because when Spike fucked him, he never ever kissed him. Kissing is reserved for beautiful girlfriends, and Xander's as far from one of those as England to good ol' California.

Spike's tongue is making lazy sweeps of Xander's mouth and Xander can't breathe. Spike probably can't either, but it's not really a big issue for the undead.

It's a nightmare because Spike's kissing him, hot and slow, and Xander's starting to feel things he has no business feeling because Spike's an evil, undead asshole and because he thought he killed his heart the same night he staked Tommy.

The blonde pulls back, a smile on his thin, tight lips, and Xander feels his own lips twist in response, a complete mockery.

"Why?" he finally asks, and there's so much riding on that one little word.

"Can't 'elp myself, pet." Spike's voice is low and husky, like he's been smoking ten packs of Lucky Strikes a day for the past ten years, and the blonde reaches out to touch Xander's face. He almost looks hurt when Xander flinches away.

He's talking, and Xander tries to focus on the words. "You were jus' a lil' whim o' Dru's, so I gave 'er what she wanted, and I did things ta you that made you hate me." The blonde shakes his head, "But you're different, pet, and sod it all ta bloody 'ell, I __care__-"

Spike stops suddenly, and his breath is heavy, which Xander finds a little strange because vampires don't need to breathe at all. The blonde says suddenly, "Tell me I'm an ass'ole, pet."

Xander's mouth repeats, "You're an asshole, Spike."

"Tell me I'm not one o' the white hats. Tell me I'm a fuckin' undead prick." Spike's voice has got a kind of self-loathing that Xander's never heard the vampire use before.

"You're an evil undead prick," his mouth says happily.

Spike's eyes are desperate. "Tell me you hate me, Xan."

"I hate you so much it hurts, Spike." And Xander finds a smile in his bag of tricks and pulls it out.

"Right." The blonde lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head. "Later, pet."

Xander watches as the vampire walks away, the ever-present swagger gone from his step. His life is a nightmare, or so he thinks to himself, but somehow he knows that no matter how much he wishes for it, he's not going to wake up.

o

There's no point in keeping up pretenses anymore, or so Xander thinks as his feet lead him aimlessly through the empty streets of LA. As loath as he is to admit it, Spike's right.

What's the point of planning and grand schemes if the vampire shows up and already knows everything, anyway?

So Xander walks, silent footfalls kicking up old dust. He plays the ideas in his head like broken harp-strings and wonders if any of it matters.

Step one had been the law firm - the money, the connections, the backing. He'd honed his skills and sealed his reputation.

Step two had been Cordelia - the easiest way to integrate himself into Angel's life. And maybe the vampire's reformed, but he sired Spike, and Xander fucking hates him.

The next bit of his plan had been a series of baby steps; drive Angel insane, destroy Cordelia, and Wesley had just been icing on the cake. Icing that Xander had thoroughly intended to lick off.

But, Xander concedes to himself, steps two and three veer away from his purpose. He's distracting himself and passing the time, and Spike's only served to remind him.

_/Sorry, Father,/_ his mind whispers, proverbial hand caught in the cookie jar, _/I was bored./_

He's lost sight of his goals, but he smiles to himself, because hey! Even God makes mistakes. And even the best laid plans... or so they say.

So in the morning, he'll dump Cordelia, send a little, "Momentary Lapse of Sanity" note to Angel, and forget about them both. He's got Wolfram and Hart to keep him busy, keep him training, and there's a two year grace period until he can go to Sunnydale, but that's perfect. He'll train harder, because even though he's been offing blonde-haired blue-eyed demons when he can find them, they aren't Spike. And once he can conquer his fear of the evil undead asshole, he'll go to Sunnydale and kill Spike.

"You don't like it," he says, eyes cast to heaven, but the smile on his face is twisted, "Smite me."

o


	7. Whispers

Title: To Die with Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 7: Whispers

o

It's two years later, and Buffy's still around. There was a brief trip to heaven mixed in somewhere, but she got over it. Willow's all powerful, like the Super Mocha Iced Chai Latte of the witching world, and Tara's still with her, and they're still cute as ever. Faith got off early for good behavior, and while Parole Officers were so blasé, she did the weekly visit thing because any price was worth paying so long as it kept her from rotting, twenty-five to life.

Giles is stuffy, but considerably less so, especially since the arrival of one Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, but they drink tea and shoot the shit, and two Watchers for two Slayers makes the Council all tingly.

Dawn's all grown up and finishing high school, and life is good because her boy-toy looks like Brad Pitt, and her sister doesn't cover her eyes when people on the Big Screen hump like stoner test bunnies. Anya, on the other hand, has moved onto bigger and better fish in the sea, and the Scoobies know for a fact that if Bill Gates dies during intercourse, it'll be with a smile on his face.

Of course, there're problems, even for two of the longest-living Slayers in history, two Watchers, and two Wiccan icons. Prophecies are involved, of course, because hey! Hellmouth here! But on the whole, the Big Bad of the week was __the__ Big Bad, who has actually been nominated Evil of the Year. Sometimes people forget, but the reminders are there, and as Buffy so frequently calls him, "Begins with an 'S' and rhymes with 'dyke.'" But then subtlety is never a strong suit of Slayers, and considerably less so with the blonde heroine because tact just doesn't breed.

Angel calls occasionally, all broody and poofy, angsting hardcore about creating the Big Bad, and sometimes even Buffy gets tired of hearing his voice, but she lets him go on because the Big Bad's taken a lot from them and even if Angel doesn't know when to quit, no one gets tired of hearing him call himself an ass.

In the beginning, no one really thought much about the changes in Sunnydale. Fewer fledges at the graveyards, and patrols became virtually pointless because no one ran into demons on the streets anymore. It had seemed like a godsend, really.

But people still disappeared without a trace, and evil still abounded, but neither Giles nor Wesley had been able to find a reason. And that's when Spike had pulled a guest appearance and flipped them off and told them there was a new Master in Sunnyhell. An organized, calculating, and very, very dangerous one. Vampire nests were equipped with security systems. Minions were armed with cellphones. Demons treaded lightly and Spike kept everyone in line.

What's worse, it worked.

Buffy can't kill what she can't find. And Spike makes sure that no demons can be found.

People were still killed on a daily basis, and with no Slayer to come and save them, the body-count rose.

Two fucking __years__ of this.

So Giles and Wes come up with the spell, good spell, lots of inkblots, and they get together and do a summoning. They want something to kill Spike with, and they're shit out of luck. Spell goes off without a hitch, except it doesn't work.

But then, no one is looking in the right places. Because a black limo pulls up right on the outskirts of town, and after three years of intensive training and preparation that made the Marines look like uber-pansy sissy-girls, Xander Harris opens the door and steps out. All dolled up in leather and packing an arsenal in his jacket, he's got a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Even if no one remembers him, he remembers all too well, and payback is such a nifty little thing when you've got divine intervention backing you up.

He's going to kill Spike.

Nothing else matters, and Xander knows that once that happens, that's it. It's been three years of wasting his time, and this is the only thing he's got left in his life. His friends don't remember him - Angel __so__ doesn't count - he kills demons and humans alike for a law firm, and he's learned he doesn't like messes or cleanup. So into Sunnydale he goes with that smile on his face, because he's all set for a double homicide/suicide.

He almost thinks it's a shame that no one remembers who he is. He kind of wanted to leave a note.

o

Faith's on her way to Willow's joint, all ready and rarin' to go. Pizza was promised, and the Slayer's hungry as hell. She's so busy praying that Wills remembered the pineapple-goodness that she doesn't even notice the guy in front of her until she bowls right into him.

They end up on the ground, all tangled arms and legs, and Faith's glad that the guy's wearing sunglasses because she's blushing a wicked shade of red. Somehow they manage to sort things out because they're on their feet again.

"You okay?" she asks, embarrassed as she gets her first look at the guy. He's all types of dark and mysterious, got that bad-boy vibe going on. Leather's a plus, and the choker's a turn on, and pizza's the last thing on her mind because Slayers do two things well - hungry and horny.

He gives her this quirky sort of smile and says, "S'cool. We're five by five."

And that's just so right it __hurts__ and something's __so__ familiar about the guy, but he just smiles again and walks away, and the moment passes and she remembers she's going to Willow's joint for pizza, and CRAP! She's late!

o

"Ooh, Spikey, it's time!" Tiny, little-girl voice, Drusilla's so excited her face keeps flashing between grr! and non-grr! "Jus' like I told you yesterday!"

"That was three years ago, plum," Spike says, smiling as he watches her sway from side to side. "I'm so glad you've been payin' attention."

Wispy silk and gauze twirls, the folds of Drusilla's dress, and she laughs, "The lil' kitten's all grown up. 'e wants ta play, luv, and 'is claws are so sharp! He's gonna kill us, Spikey, and then we'll dance together. Can we 'ave a picnic?"

Spike doesn't answer, but then he doesn't need to because Xander's standing in the doorway with a smile on his face and a stake in his hand.

"Sure, Princess," Xander says, death in his eyes, "We'll have a nice picnic. Just the three of us."

"Sounds lovely, lovey," Drusilla giggles and she dances forward.

Spike's eyes aren't on his dark goddess, though. They're locked with Xander's, and they remain there, even as Drusilla dances right into the stake. Her words die on the wind, a whisper of shadows, and Xander and Spike are smiling as they listen.

"Can we 'ave cake?"

And there's dust around them, and Xander addresses the dead vampiric goddess as he asks, "I dunno', Princess. Can we have cake, Spikey?"

Spike smiles and replies, "I dunno', pet. Can I lick off all the icin'?"

And that's the cue because Xander and Spike are circling each other, breathing in the ash.

"Said I'd see you in 'ell, pet," Spike murmurs, sizing up three years of training.

Xander's eyeing one hundred plus years of vampiric strength as he says, "This is hell, Spike."

Spike steps to the left.

"Missed you."

Xander moves to the right.

"Hate you."

Spike sends a fist in Xander's direction.

"Want you."

Xander blocks with ease.

"Hate you."

Spike stops, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Need you."

Xander stops, and there's no doubt in his voice.

"Hate you."

And then they're tearing at each other like fucking barbarians.

o

Spike and Xander are still going at each other, all dark and primal grace, when Buffy and the crew make a guest appearance. Out of the corner of his eyes, Xander recognizes Buffy immediately- she's older, but she's still the same freakin' fashion addict she was back in the day. He knows Faith, Willow, and Tara, but there's a scrawny little kid towards the very back of the group who he can't quite place.

"Busy, Slayer," Spike says without looking at her, "Come back tomorrow."

"Um, how about... no." Buffy's eyes are flickering between Spike and Xander, and the frown on her face is deepening. Willow's already chanting with Tara and Faith's staring at Xander.

Faith exclaims, "You're that guy I ran into on the street!"

The two combatants pause and Xander graces Faith with a smile. He says, "Don't suppose it matters now, but you were a fucking __terrible__ lay."

"Seriously getting the wiggins, here," Buffy says stupidly.

Xander jerks his thumb at the Slayer and says, "Hey, Spike, what's a blonde's favorite nursery rhyme?"

"What, pet?"

He glances at his once-crush and says, "Humpme, dumpme."

Spike snickers.

It's fucking beautiful, because Buffy goes completely red, and Faith's still stuck on the "terrible lay" comment, mentally inventorying all of her drunken fucks and trying to place the face. Willow and Tara are so confused they stop chanting, and by the time this all plays out, Spike's on the fucking __floor__, laughing hysterically.

Xander stalks over to Buffy and gives her a not-so-gentle push towards the exit. He says, "Go call Angel, Buffster. Go cry wolf to the creature that made the Big Bad."

"What?" Buffy splutters, clearly wondering when the things-that-stalk-in-the-night got her number.

Xander smiles and maybe it's a fluke, but the Slayer backs off. Faith, Willow, and Tara follow suit, and Xander can't resist. He calls after her, "Oh, and be sure to tell him the Hunter sends love and dark kisses, will you?"

Then he turns back to Spike, ready to pick up right where they left off when a subdued voice reaches his eyes. He turns to the scrawny kid who should have left with Buffy.

"Please," the voice whispers, softer this time. "Please, stop."

Xander looks at the boy who stayed behind; he doesn't recognize him, but there's something familiar sort of tugging at his memories. That catches him a little off guard, because sure, Vengeance remembers lots of stuff, and the Soldier always had a few tugs here and there, and even the fucking __hyena__ whispers at the thrill of the hunt. But Xander can't remember the last time his own memories had been called into play - memories of a time he was still Xander Harris.

So he forces the confusion aside and asks, "Who are you?"

"God's Tongue," the timid voice replies, kind of shaky.

"No," Xander reiterates, "Who are __you__?" He puts the stress on that last word to make sure his point is clear as crystal.

"Andrew," comes the hesitant reply. "Andrew Wells."

Ah, Xander's mind thinks sagely as he remembers Andrew from his days in school. "Never would have pegged you for a divine rug-muncher, Drew."

Softly, Spike snickers.

"You're so nasty," Andrew says, then slaps his hands over his mouth. His eyes go sort of wide, and isn't it nice that all the rest of God's bits are treading lightly with him.

Xander snorts, "Sticks and stones, kid."

"Please..." Andrew says softly, still eyeing Xander like a kid eyes the monster under the bed. The stutter in the voice is a nice touch. "P-please, s-stop this. God n-never wanted it to h-happen this way. When H-he spoke your p-prophecy, he __n-never__ meant for you to become..."

Andrew seems a little lost for words so Xander pipes up pleasantly, "A sinner?"

The boy shakes his head and whispers again, "Please, stop."

And, hey! There's a wicked little idea that's itching Xander's mind, and so what if it's selfish because he's been jerked around to other people's strings since he can remember. Smiling, Xander says, "I'll leave today if you answer me this."

"What?" Andrew asks, blinking.

"Why me?"

And there it is, out in the empty voice and kind of taunting God's Tongue. Spike's there, listening, but for an evil undead asshole, he's doing a fine job of making himself scarce.

Andrew hesitates and says, "I can't..."

There's no room for argument in Xander's voice as he says simply, "You can."

And there's twitching and flinching and Andrew looks like he'd rather be anywhere in the fucking world but here, but his voice - with an uncanny resolve - answers, "No."

_/Boy's got balls,/_ Xander's mind pipes up, somewhat impressed despite himself.

He takes a step forward and asks, "Why?"

Andrew stumbles back.

There's a little more emotion in the cracking voice and Xander takes another step forward. "Why?"

"Xander..." Andrew whispers softly and swallows, and but the floodgate's been broken, and Andrew knows he has two choices - answer or drown.

"__Why__?" Xander's screaming, more emotion in his broken, trembling voice than Spike thinks is possible. "Why __me__?"

And this is it, or so Spike thinks. This is the moment of truth. This is the divine answer. This is every reason Xander's been looking for since the moment he stood over the body of Vengeance and the wheels of prophecy came into play.

And then God's Tongue opens his mouth, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, and he whispers, "Because you were there."

There's silence, the words that should never had been spoken weigh heavily in the air, and every implication those words can mean run through Spike's mind, which is silly because there's only one implication and it's all so very wrong.

Xander's standing there, face blank, eyes empty, and the vampire wonders if that's it. If those words are going to fucking break the Hunter like the straw that broke the camel's back, and somehow Spike knows that if Xander shatters now, there will be no putting him back together again.

And there's Xander, doubled over with his arms around his waist and there's this __noise__ in the air, shattering the silence and it's the worst sound Spike's ever heard, and God's Tongue is clapping his hands over his ears, tears streaming down his face, and Spike's so very tempted to do the same.

The noise, that fucking noise, one hundred times worse than nails scratching down a chalkboard, and there's a shiver running down the vampire's back and he closes his eyes and wishes he never hears it again.

Because Xander, shoulders shaking, eyes sparkling with malicious merriment -

Xander's laughing.

o

"Because you were there."

And Xander has to laugh, he can't help himself because it's the fucking story of his __life__.

_/Why'd you hit me, daddy?/_

_/Why'd you fuck me, Faith?/_

_/Why'd you love me, Anya?/_

_/Why'd you hurt me, Spike?/_

Oh, God, it fucking __figures__ and there it is, all rolled into one, the story of his life in four fucking words.

"Because you were there."

o

Note: *ahem* "Stoner test bunnies" was inspired by recently watching Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. No infringement intended to Kevin Smith. And a big thanks to Theraces for Andrew's last name.

o


	8. Screams

Title: To Die **w**ith Open Eyes

Author: Becka

Chapter 8: Screams

o

Xander's laughing. It's so fucking __wrong__ but it's all he can do, and Andrew is shaking because there are some sounds the human voice isn't supposed to make.

It's hysterical and dark and twisted, and there's something in there that says Xander's not going to stop on his own. It's not a wave Xander's riding anymore - it's a fucking __tsunami__.

o

Guard's shaking.

Trembling, actually, would be more accurate. Because the prophecy of the Hunter is coming to pass, and while Xander's been fucking with God for the past three years, this is the moment of truth. This is where it all plays out, and as a divine entity, Guard's entitled to watch.

Entitled, meaning forced.

It's like a fucking I-MAX theater inside of his head, and every other force of God is sitting in there with him, and Dolby surround-sound is a bitch because Xander's laughing, everywhere at once.

Clerk's there too, and he reaches out a hand and brushes it along Guard's face. Then the hand drops, but it's the effort that's put into that gesture that hits Guard in the gut because he doesn't think he can move right then even if God orders it.

But then, his respect for the Big Guy is dropping at a rapid speed.

It started more than one hundred years ago when God first spoke of the prophecy. He said that William the Bloody would become too bloody powerful, and isn't it funny that Xander had hit it right on the mark? Knowledge was divinity and there wasn't going to __be__ something bigger'n'badder on the food chain to kill Spike.

And that's what it all boils down to. The Big Guy was afraid the Big Bad might one day usurp His throne.

So He'd set the gears going for someone to kill Spike.

Why He'd picked Xander, Guard hadn't understood.

Guard had __thought__ it was because Xander was a true innocent. He'd thought it was because there was a fucking white knight inside the boy that would be their salvation. Hell, he'd even thought that it would be an honor for the kid - an honor to become the Paladin of God.

And then Guard had heard the prophecy.

The Big Guy wasn't setting Xander up to be a paladin. He was setting Xander up to be a fucking __sacrifice__.

He was damning the Hunter's immortal soul to __hell__.

That still left the question, though. Why Xander?

Listening to that laugh, Guard shivers. God's Tongue is incapable of speaking lies.

The prophecy is cruelty. No other prophecy has wiped the memory of its Chosen One from the minds of the only people who can help him. The "alive but not living, in memory dead" clause seems like just another way to drive Xander insane. Take away his life so that all he has to focus on is the demon that fucking destroyed him.

And isn't it just perfect that the particular demon in question is a vampire? For all intents and purposes, one of the two demons that already __is__ dead?

It's all clear to Guard now as he watches the prophecy play out. As God's Eyes, he should have known. He should have seen this coming a mile away, but hindsight, for him at least, is absolute.

The Hunter is insane. The Big Bad is lost. Neither of them is going to make it through the night because they were fucking __created__ to destroy each other. Spike's already damned, and Xander's well on his way, and neither of them will ever step a foot inside the pearly gates. They're going to be welcomed to hell with open arms, and Drusilla's going to be waiting at the fiery gates with a cup of tea and a picnic basket.

And the kicker, the real fucking __kicker__ here, is that God will be replaced.

He __created__ the prophecy to insure His throne, but after seeing the way this all plays out, no one up here's going to want anything to do with Him anymore. Every angel will want answers because every angel can hear Xander's laughter, and after tonight, God's fears will come to pass.

God created the Hunter to keep Spike from taking his throne.

But it's because of the Hunter that the angels will want a new God.

That will be later, though.

Because Guard is watching Xander.

And where God's Eyes gaze, all of Heaven's Eyes will follow.

o

Xander's laughing. It's hysterical and twisted, and he shows no signs of stopping. Andrew's still covering his hands to his ears, sobbing, and the words, "Stop, please stop," that bubble to his lips are breaking.

And Spike can't take it anymore. He can't deal with hearing Xander's laughter, and if he had a stake, he'd use it, but somehow he knows that sound will follow him straight to hell. Then Spike's moving forward and his arms are around Xander and he whispers the only words that come to mind, a little late, but hey! Ten points for effort, even if the execution is fucked.

"Love you, pet."

Xander's laughter ceases abruptly.

Silence descends, and it's almost as damning as that laughter, but Xander's mouth is opening and a voice that he doesn't recognize is saying, "I'm a terrible person, Spikey."

"I raped you, pet. I think I can relate," the vampire responds gently, and Xander doesn't know how they're sitting on the floor, but Spike's rocking him like a child.

And there's that voice he doesn't recognize again. "I've killed so many people."

Spike buries his face in Xander's shoulder and whispers, "I made you kill your first."

"Was I ever innocent?" Xander knows that's his voice, but he can't ever remember sounding so lost.

"Before you met me."

And they're clinging to each other, and Xander doesn't know if he's supporting Spike or if it's the other way around. Andrew's watching this bizarre exchange through wide eyes, and maybe it's surreal, but this is a relationship between the Donut Boy and the Big Bad and it never could have been a normal one. And maybe he knows what's coming, or maybe he just can't take this anymore, but Andrew turns around and stumbles away.

So Xander just closes his eyes and hugs the cool body closer as he whispers, "I hate you, Spike."

Spike lets out a shaky breath, but doesn't let go.

Xander's voice is adamant as he says, "Ask me who I am, Spikey."

Deceptively soft, Spike responds, "Who are you, pet?"

And then Xander smiles, an empty smile, and looks at Spike with empty eyes, and says without a single doubt, "I'm the fucking comic relief."

There's a heartbeat as those words sink in, and he continues, "You know who you are, Spike?"

"Who am I, pet?"

"You're my salvation."

o

All of Heaven is watching as the Hunter and his prey share a tender kiss. They watch as the two combatants turn to retrieve their weapons - a stake and a knife, both stained with the blood of countless creatures. And they watch as the fight begins.

There's silent agreement there, written plainly in baby blue and chocolate brown. It's more like Spike and Xander are testing one another as they dance with primal grace. And it's almost comical that the epic battle between Heaven and Hell comes down to a demon in love and a human with nothing but vengeance in his heart.

And when the final blow comes, when the knife and the stake are poised to strike each other in the heart -

- when all of Heaven holds its breath -

- when all of Hell begins to pray -

- Xander's left standing there, all alone.

o

"Fucking undead PRICK!" Xander says, but there's no sting in the words, and the tears running down his face say something else completely.

_/ Said I'd die for you, pet, /_ a voice whispers in his head.

And Xander's left staring at the ashes, and he __knows__ it's wrong because he just shoved a stake through Spike and the blonde had a knife to his heart and he didn't fucking __use__ it. Right before the killing blow, just a centimeter from his heart, and __why__ wasn't he bleeding to death? The vampire had stopped, pulled short, but Xander's stake had hit the mark, and he's crying, and he knows it's stupid, but he's so fucking __lost__.

_/Can't kill my heart, /_ Spike's whispering in his head, _/'cause my heart's already dead./_

So Xander huddles there, arms around his knees, rocking back and forth.

His voice is small and hurt, like a little child.

"I'm supposed to die __with__ you."

o

Spike's dead, Spike's dead, Spike's fucking __dead__. The mantra's looping in Xander's mind, but it doesn't really register.

There's nothing left for Xander - nothing left at all. And it's all Xander can do not to scream because isn't it just __fucked__. He's spent so long planning to kill Spike that there's nothing left in his life now that Spike's gone. He's the Hunter, the ex-Vengeance of God, but he's got nothing left.

No one remembers, and no one cares. Spike cared.

But Spike's dead.

So Xander smiles and picks up Spike's knife, twirling it with his fingers. He makes the blade dance across his skin.

_/What was it that Spike said?/_

There's blood, but there's always blood, and if he's honest, this is the way it has to be.

Spike was the only one that could have killed him, but now Spike's dead.

_/Oh, that's right./_

Xander smiles, just like a kid on Christmas day. There's blood, lots of it, and the knife's dropping to the ground and it hits the floor with a clang. It echoes in Xander's mind, and Spike whispers -

_/I'll see you in hell, pet./_

And even as he closes his eyes and the darkness overtakes him, Xander swears he can see Spike and Drusilla there, holding a picnic basket as, laughing, they beckon him to join.

o

fin

o


End file.
